


The Boy With Eyes of Gold and Mercury

by BeckNoir



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Break Up, Creature Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Language, Fae & Fairies, Fae Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Character Death, Peter Has Feelings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckNoir/pseuds/BeckNoir
Summary: Stiles has always had more than his fair share of secrets, and he's always known that one day those secrets will mean he has to leave Beacon Hills behind.He never expected it to happen quite like this though.
Relationships: Claudia Stilinski/Sheriff Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 51
Kudos: 418





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So back in September I had an idea for a cute little Fae! Stiles one-shot. 4 months later and that one-shot turned into a three piece monster with a life of it's own. 
> 
> Part 2 of this story is already written, just in need of editing, and Part 3 is about half written.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy the weird and wonderful(?) work that my brain spat out.

  
Human beings like to believe, rather foolishly, that they exist in the world as apex predators.

It’s a laughable notion to almost anyone that knows otherwise.

A wealth of creatures, both with human origins and those without, integrate their daily lives with humans. Even despite the fragility and ignorance of said humans. 

Humans haven’t always been so ignorant, however.

Once, when life on Earth was still in its infancy, a bloody and violent war was raged between the mortals of Earth and a race of creatures known as The Fae.

While The Fae were humanoid in appearance, for the most part, they outpaced humanity in almost every aspect. Every aspect except numbers. 

Even the eldest of Fae couldn’t remember how the war started, and no mention of it will ever be found in a human history book. Human jealousy was often labelled the culprit, however.

The Fae, who existed in a realm entirely of their own known as The Summerlands, could have easily let humanity forget about them. Disappeared until once peace returned and human memory faded before re-integrating themselves with humanity. Unfortunately, The Fae aren’t known for being forgiving, and they dragged the bloodshed on for decades.

Until one day, humanities sheer numbers overwhelmed The Fae. Resulting in their leader, Queen Maeve, being killed in battle. 

Distraught with grief, Maeve’s younger sister ordered an immediate retreat. Desperate to not let her sister's death be in vain, the reign of Queen Titania and her husband Oberon began. Strict laws limiting contract with those on Earth were immediately enacted, and a new era of peace reigned for The Fae.

But peace can never last forever.

* * *

“How did we get here?”

The question is thrown out like a lifeline, an attempt to bridge the ever-increasing chasm between the two royal Fae. 

King Oberon and Queen Titania stare each other down, armies of their fellow Fae are on both sides of their conflict as they stand in front of the Nemeta. It’s the last remaining relic of their creator, an imposing oak tree that has power and magic rolling off in lazy waves. Located in the direct centre of The Summerlands, it was the source of The Fae’s power. Left behind by the Great Mother Danu before she went to create worlds anew. 

“This is the best way for all of us.”

Oberon let out a hollow laugh, his eyes burning a ferocious coppery gold, at his wife’s statement. Neither of them wanted this, that much he was confident of. Neither of them are entirely sure of how things between them have soured so terrible. They were supposed to be soulbonded to one another, having been blessed with each other’s names etched onto their bodies by the Nemeta a few thousand years ago. They were supposed to be the true compliment and balance to one another. Destined to love each other until the end of their days. That was how it had always been. How it had been promised to them by The Great Mother before she left.

The armies behind both of them were shuffling in anticipation, and Oberon released a melancholic sigh. He’d promised once that he would never allow his people to return to war and Oberon would be damned if he broke that promise now.

“So be it.”

Titania watched though a steel gaze as her husband approached the Nemeta. With a slow sweep of his sword, he sliced open his hand before dragging the open wound down the rough bark of the Nemeta. 

He might as well have shoved his sword directly into her heart for all the pain the action causes her. She hates this, but she knows it’s what needs to be done. The differences between the two are too vast now. The poisonous hurt between them has seeped into and infected the rest of their people. It was a small miracle all-out war hadn’t already broken out. She continues to follow Oberon’s moments as he steps back to his previous position in front of her. He looks pale, Titania thinks to herself absently, wishing she could reach out to touch him, to comfort him like she once could. 

Instead, she mirrors his actions and presses her bleeding palm onto the Nemeta. Only Titania doesn’t get a chance to return to her position as her knees buckle, and she crashes to the floor. No amount of court training on propriety or nerves of steel could stop the shattering scream that rips itself free from her throat. She’s vaguely aware that Oberon has similarly fallen to the floor, but all she can really focus on is the all-consuming feeling of burning that encases her entire body. 

Oberon knew the ritual wouldn’t be pleasant, but he hadn’t expected such a soul-rending level of agony. If he had more control over his own body at that moment, he would have happily turned his sword upon himself. It feels like every nerve in his body is being melted, and death would have been a welcome release.

Mercifully, the pain abates almost as quickly as it came upon them both. They don’t have a chance to recover, however, when a thunderous rumble under their feet begins. Every Fae presents has only a few moments to register the grounds own heart-shattering scream as it splits open and they all lose consciousness.

When they awaken, it is to a different world, to a life that will never be the same again. The Summerlands have been brutalized and forever scarred by their own hands, and it’s from the land’s suffering that the newly divided Seelie and Unseelie courts are born.

* * *

Night has long since descended upon the Seelie court, and a soft peace has blanketed the court as most of its resident’s sleep.

For Queen Titania, however, sleep has yet to greet her. She knows a peaceful rest is unlikely to be hers this night. She can’t bring herself to mind as she stares down at the sleeping face of her beloved grandson. 

She often marvels at the young child, he is after all a miracle. One that for a long time, she never thought she would be blessed with. But having him here isn’t without difficulties and challenges.

“My precious little Starlight,” Titania mutters as she brushes dark and unruly hair out of his eyes.

“I hear he rather butchered pronouncing that one today.” 

Titania doesn’t need to look up to identify who has just entered the room. She presses a soft kiss to the young boy’s temple as he shuffles in his sleep before she stands and turns to face the new arrival.

“Yes, he ended up calling himself Stiles. He seemed rather taken with it, so I doubt it’ll be the last we hear of that little nickname.” 

Even in the darkness, Titania can see the rather judgmental eyebrow raised in her direction, and she can’t resist the unbecoming urge to roll her eyes.

“How long do you intend to keep him here?”

“Please Rowan, not this again.” Titania sighs as the two exit the room. She doesn't want what is no doubt about to be an argument, to wake up the sleeping child.

“Mother, listen to me for once,” Rowan growls out, and he grabs Titania arm to make her turn and face him. Her patience is almost none existent, and her desire to have this conversation even less.

“Crown Prince you may be Rowan, but have caution with how you speak to me. I have little patience for this conversation again.” Titania grinds out, silver eyes narrowed and harsh.

“Mischief belongs with his parents, not here. I know you’ve seen how the other court children treat him. They call him a freak, an abomination and a traitor to the court. We both know they had to have learned such slander from their parents. Oberon continues to grow more restless in his attempts to take Mischief, he’s sending spies daily now,” Rowan pleads. He knows his mother has become increasingly volatile about the subject, but Rowan knows he must push on. If only for the sake of his young nephew’s future. He would take any punishment his mother had to deal out if that’s what it took.

“He belongs here, with us, and I tire greatly of this insolence.” Titania glares at her eldest son with a ferocity that would cause a lesser man to cower. The lamps that light the castle corridor begin to flicker wildly as her magic flares threateningly. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your little trips to earth to locate your brother, or that you are the one who helped him leave in the first place.”

Rowan steps closer to his mother, his own silver eyes glowing softly in anger, and the tension is palpable.

“I love you, Mother, but that boy in there doesn’t deserve to suffer because of your mistakes. You had him ripped from his mother’s arms when he was hardly an hour old. You refuse to tell him the truth, yet you lord him around the court like a dancing monkey. You’ve had one of your own sons, and his bonded hunted for centuries. Yet now you want to stand there and lecture me on the things I’ve done wrong?”

“Enough Rowan, please.” 

There’s a broken quality that enters Titania’s voice that causes Rowan to pause. Without another word, the Queen turns and walks away, just like she always does. Her ghost-white hair a stark contrast as she disappears into the darkness and gloom of the castle. Rowan watches on silently as she leaves. It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument, nor will it be the last. He loves his younger brother and his adorable little nephew far too much to give up. He’s all they have right now, the only one fighting their corner. Rowan would fall on his sword before he abandoned them to his mother and Oberon’s machinations.

“Why Gran-Gran and Unca’ Row so sad?”

The soft and sleep-filled voice has Rowan turning to see his little nephew stood in the bedroom door. Mismatched eyes look back at him blearily, with tiny clawed hands clutching tightly onto his blanket.

“Not sad my little Mischief, we just don’t agree on something,” Rowan says as he scoops the boy up and walks back into the bedroom to tuck him back into bed. “And sometimes it’s difficult when you love someone but can’t agree on something important. Don’t worry though my little beastie, we’ll figure it out eventually.”

Rowan is gifted with a toothy grin as the youngster snuggles back into bed and sleep begins to claim him once again.

“Love you the most Unca’ Row.” He mumbles out before finally giving in to sleep again.

Rowan bends down and mimicks his mother’s action from before, by kissing his brow softly.

“And I love you the most Mischief. The very very most.”

* * *

“Mixed blood freak!” 

“Traitor!”

“Seelie Spy!”

Every insult was delivered with several sharp kicks to Stiles body. He’s huddled in the fetal position on the cold stone floor of one of the unused palace corridors. Stiles is trying desperately hard not to wince or react to the blows as best he can. It was a common experience at this point, even though he has only been living in the Unseelie Court for about 6 months at this point. 

He hates living in the Unseelie Court. 

Things had been difficult living with his Gran-Gran, but at least there he had his Uncle Rowan. At least there he knew all the secret passageways and could escape any particularly annoying or stressful situations. 

“I bet the King is so disappointed his first grandchild is such dirty blooded trash like you. You’re such a weakling. You’re so pathetic!”

Stiles couldn’t say he was particularly thrilled with having the King for a grandfather either.

Spending 50 years living amongst his grandmother’s court may or may not have biased him slightly against the Unseelie King. However, even without that taken into account, he still wouldn’t like the King. 

Granted, Stiles was glad he could finally live with his parents at long long last. Elated actually. No more sneaking off to Earth with Uncle Rowan on hunting trips so that he could spend time with his Mama and Papa. But now…now he was being forced to spend 50 years trapped here in the Unseelie Court, with no chance of seeing his gran-gran or his uncle until the 50 years were over. 

Stiles doesn’t like the King because he’s a selfish prick, demanding Stiles spends the same amount of time in the Unseelie Court as he spent living with Gran-Gran. It was in some shitty one-upping contest between the two monarchs that honestly grated him completely the wrong way.

“I can assure you little brats that I would be more disappointed being related to any of you.”

Stiles stills at the familiar voice, and it’s all he can do to suppress a groan. 

“Now, return to your parents and let them know I will be expecting to see them first thing in the morning to discuss your punishments.” There is the thundering of several pairs of small feet running away before a clawed hand gently grips his arm and pulls him upright.

“Are you injured, my boy?”

Stiles sneers at Oberon, a split lip pulled back over sharp and bloody teeth, and pulls his arm out of the King’s grip.

“I’m not your anything.” 

Oberon sighs and runs a hand through dark hair in thinly veiled frustration.

“I think it’s time you and I had a little chat my boy. Come, walk with me.” Oberon stands up and raises a critical eyebrow at Stiles as he does so, letting him know in no uncertain terms it was a command and not a request. Somewhat begrudgingly, Stiles rises. Only slightly wincing at having to force his injured body to move. 

They wander slowly around the empty, dust-filled corridors and for a while neither say a word. Stiles can’t think of literally anything worse than being here right now, so he isn’t going to his grandfather the satisfaction of talking first. No matter how much his curiosity is starting to peak, wondering what he wants to talk about.

“Do you know why I wanted you to stay here with me?”

“Nope, and I don’t care either.”

“Obstinate little Wildling aren’t you?” Oberon chuckles slightly, which is defiantly not the reaction Stiles was expecting. His grandmother would have scolded him for a week for such cheek.

“I’m sure your grandmother would say to the contrary, but I’m not entirely heartless. Nor is she the only one who has been missing one of their children all these years. I saw a chance to have Ena, your mother, safely back within my halls once again, and I took it. Don’t you think it’s a father’s right to ensure his child’s security if he can? Isn’t that what your own father would do?”

Stiles turns to look at Oberon with a frown, who is looking down at him with a thoughtful expression. Almost like he actually cares what Stiles has to say, like he values Stiles opinion. Even amongst his Gran-Gran’s court, that isn’t something Stiles is used to. 

“Then why did you have them hunted down in the first place? If you love us all so much, why didn’t you call off the hunters? Why are you making us be hunted again once your precious 50 years are up?”

Oberon kneels down to look Stiles in the eye, and there’s a softness to him that Stiles never expected to see from Oberon. It’s still strange for Stiles to look into the golden eyes that accompany Unseelie Fae. For years the only one he ever saw was the mismatched one staring back at him in the mirror. 

“Could you forgive an old man for making a mistake? I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes in my lifetime little Wildling that is certain, but banishing your mother is defiantly one of my worst. Sending hunters after her only is only slightly lower on the list. I was angry, I was scared, but mostly I just wanted her back home. For the longest time, it seemed to be the best way to get her back. As for what happens when your time here is over…” Oberon looks away, and for the first time, Stiles starts to see the King as someone that actually cares for him. Rather than the scary and cruel monster he’s always seen him portrayed as.

“If I could have my way, my boy, you and your parents would live here until the Great Mother returns to us all at the end of time. Unfortunately, I don’t think your grandmother would agree to that. This way, while not entirely pleasant for any of us, it means that when it’s all over you and your parents will have a choice. A choice about what you want your future to look like. You could live here, with your grandmother or switch between the two. But the choice will be yours, and considering the circumstances, it was the best thing myself and your grandmother could actually agree on.”

Stiles stares at his grandfather as he churns over what’s been said. On the one hand, he still doesn’t get why they can’t just call off the whole thing and let them all live in peace right now. Yet, on the other hand, he’s strangely touched that Oberon would put some much thought and effort into a long term plan. One that might actually benefit Stiles and his parents at the end of it.

When Stiles still hasn’t said anything after several moments, Oberon stands back up and turns to walk away. He’s not made it this far in life by not knowing when to pick his battles after all. 

To Oberon’s surprise, Stiles’s small hand shoots out and takes hold of his, and that one small gesture fills him with hope. It won’t be as easy as ‘hey we’ve had one heart to heart and now I love you’, but it’s a start. In companionable silence, they walk back to the central area of the castle. Stiles with the new perspective that just maybe living with the Unseelie Fae won’t be quite as bad as he thought it was going to be.

* * *

“You know, when most children’s favourite uncle comes to visit, they usually take them to the beach. Or you know, Disney land. Not Gorgon hunting across the North Aegean Islands.”

Rowan looks up from tying a bandage around his left forearm to see his sister-in-laws bemused face. Clearly, little Mischief had taken great delight in telling his mother everything they had been up to for the last few days while she tucked him into bed. Rowan raised his uninjured arm up in surrender, which earned him a chuckle before she crossed the room to help him tie the bandage.

“What can I say, it’s not every day you turn 250. And besides, we saw plenty of beaches. Just…of the Grecian and Turkish kind.”

His sister-in-law's eyes glint a soft copper-gold behind her human glamour, and she flicks his injured arm for good measure.

There's a quiet and relaxed moment between the two as Rowan settles in front of the fireplace, in an attempt to ease some of the battle aches setting into his bones. 

“I never got to properly thank you, Rowan, for raising my son when I couldn’t.”

“Ena…”

She scowls at him for interrupting her, which just makes him shuffle uncomfortably. 

“For once in your life just listen to me. Honestly, you’re as bad as your brother,” Ena’s scowl softens and is replaced by a small, sad smile. “ When your mother had Stiles taken from us I was…I was beyond distraught. It broke something inside of me. Something I’m still working very hard to fix.” 

Ena stares absently into the fire, rather wisely Rowan stays silent. 

“I worried day and night what type of person he was becoming, the life he was leading, how the court was treating him because of his…differences. Gods I almost lost my mind with worry countless times.” She lets out a watery chuckle, still transfixed by the fire as she reminisces “ I dread to think what would have happened if he didn’t have you there. You know, sometimes I see him look at you, or I hear him talk about you, and I realise neither of us can compete with the love he holds for you.”

“Ena, please. He’s your son, of course he loves you.” Rowan rebukes, but he can’t quite find it in himself to put much heart into it. Honestly, ever since the death of his own soulbonded many years ago, Mischief has been one of the few bright spots in his life. He is defiantly the one that shines the brightest. Rowan would be lying if he said he didn’t consider his nephew to be the son he never had. 

“I’m not blind Rowan or stupid. I know he loves me, but he idolizes you, and it’s not hard to figure out why. You raised him for the first 50 years of his life, not me.” Ena sighs and finally turns her gaze to Rowan, who’s currently the pinnacle of uncomfortable. And to think, they’d managed to go oh so long without having to have this conversation.

“At first I was jealous, what mother wouldn’t be? But now…now I’m just thankful he had you. He’s a wonderful, vibrant boy and that’s down to you. Never mind the debt we all owe you for helping us get back together. Convincing both of the Fae monarchs to meet for the first time in over 2000 years? Not exactly a feat that just anyone could do you know. Danu only knows how stubborn my father has been over this whole thing. To this day I don’t know how you convinced him to come to an agreement with the Queen, but however you did it, Rowan, you have my eternal thanks.”

Silence settles in the space between them, Ena content of having said her piece and Rowan unsure if there’s a socially acceptable response to what Ena just said to him.

“Well, while you stew in male consternation, I’m heading to bed. Stiles wants to show you around all the main attractions New Orleans has to offer, and Danu knows we’re all going to need our rest for that. Sleep well, Rowan.”

* * *

It's the middle of a hazy summer when Stiles and his parents first come to Beacon Hills. He's not impressed in the slightest. 

He had just spent the entire day playing in the woods behind their old house having a grand old time. When dusk hit, his parents appear behind him without warning. They had been on edge, hurrying him to stop playing and get moving. Nothing had particularly made sense until shouting began off in the distance. Before he could open his mouth, his dad is hoisting him up on his shoulders, and with a loud crack, they left that life behind. 

He is of course yelling and thrashing about as they land in Beacon Hills, accompanied jumping feels like being pushed through a pipe cleaner and then tied to a roller-coaster. Stiles does not care for it at all. Before long, nausea takes over, and he's throwing up all over his dad's shoes. 

He is quickly passed to his mom, her once burning red hair fading to brown before his eyes. Her eyes glowing a warm amber before also fading to muted brown. 

This had always been the part he hated most about moving, that until he got used to their new appearances, his parents stopped looking like his parents. And honestly, he'd really liked the red hair.

"This is the last time we have to move Stiles, I promise."

She says that every time. Stiles hopes this time it's true.

* * *

They’ve been living in Beacon Hills as the Stilinski family, for about 2 years when things get sent special delivery straight to hell. The perfectly respectable couple known as Noah and Claudia Stilinski with their wild and free-spirited son that no one would suspect as another other than human,

Stiles has absolutely mastered pretending he’s an 8-year-old human boy at this point. Since he’s only got another 17 years before he reaches his majority he’s going to enjoy every last second of his final years of freedom, _thank you very much_. 

It’s a strange dichotomy for his parents. They both know that he is so much older than he acts, will in fact soon be an adult by their standards. Yet, they’ve spent almost two centuries pretending he is a small human child for their own protection to the point it has become second nature to continue treating him as such. 

He knows there isn’t room for the whole childish act when he comes barreling home from school one day to find his father cradling his mother’s unconscious form on the living room floor.

“What happened?”

Stiles has a pretty good guess as to what has happened, more specifically who. Afterall, Stiles and his parents have been on the run from bounty hunters since forever, thanks to his grandparents being stubborn assholes.

For centuries the pair have been on Earth, dogged continuously by hunters but successfully avoiding them until that fateful day when Stiles was stolen away. Initially, they had lived in Europe, seamlessly blending in with the skyrocketing population of the continent until famine and war had driven them west to America, where Stiles was born.

Stiles could happily and easily write a PhD thesis on why his parents continued exile was utter bullshit. That it had everything to do with his grandparents bending to the will of their respective courtiers, no matter how either of them tried to explain it away. The courtiers were all annoying, politically motivated social climbers that seemed to think his parents hadn’t quite suffered enough. Stiles had been furious, but his parents have abided by every ridiculous decree and rule Titania and Oberon put in place with little complaint. 

And now here they are, on the home stretch of their sentence and so close to being able to live in peace and his mom is dying.

 _Fucking hell_.

Stiles kneels down next to his mom, and it takes all his strength and resolve not to cry. Her skin is cold and clammy, and even unconscious, her body is continuously trembling. Her usually calming scent of wild heather and pine is gone, replaced by something not dissimilar to rotting wood. 

Iron poisoning.

“How long does she have?” 

“If we can’t get her to a healer, at most a month but likely less than that. She’ll lose her mind and become unstable long before it kills her...Stiles what are you doing?!”

Midway through Noah’s explanation, Stiles has already removed his shirt, age glamour broken and is moving his mother out of his dad’s arms and onto the couch. 

“I’m giving her more time. It’s something Gramps taught me a long time ago. He’s part Baobhan Sith, which means Mama and me also carry some of it in us, and it means we can do some neat like tricks using our blood. Funny story, it’s actually where the myths about vamp...you know what nevermind. Not important right now.” 

With a quick flick of his nails, several jagged red lines appear on Stiles’s wrist, and with the care and grace of someone handling their most prized possession, he carefully opens his mother’s mouth and places his bleeding wrist inside. 

For what feels like the longest moment of Stiles and Noah’s lives nothing happens until slowly, Claudia’s eyes begin to open. Her eyes burn a furious gold as she slowly comes back into awareness. 

“Go call Uncle Rowan, he’ll know what to do. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.”

His father hesitates for just a moment before standing up from the floor and leaving to contact his brother. 

Once his dad has left the room, Stiles burrows his face in the crook of his mom’s neck, holding her like she was the only thing keeping the world together. 

He would save her, no matter what it cost.

* * *

It’s raining the day they pretend to bury her _because of course it is_. Although that doesn’t stop what feels like half the goddamn county from coming out to pay their respects.

Stiles feels like a fraud, which all things considered, he is. 

In typical Fae fashion, or maybe it’s just his family, everything that happened after his mother got poisoned was vastly more complicated and headache-inducing than it needed to be. 

It had taken several weeks of Stiles feeding her his blood on an almost hourly basis and in the end him threatening to abdicate from both courts before she was allowed to return to see a healer. 

She wasn’t, however, allowed to return to Earth afterwards. By allowing her to return to the land of the Fae, she had to remain in Queen Titania’s palace as a political prisoner. 

Utter bollocks if you asked Stiles. Not that he could actually say that considering he was supposed to be an 8-year-old.

He knows his mother isn’t dead, that lying in that coffin is just a golem made to look and act like his mother. It all to help sell the whole ‘poor Claudia gone mad and died of a rare illness’ routine that they have to play up after she escaped from the house mid-iron poisoning and scared the neighbours half to death. 

Everyone is saying how sorry they are for their loss, to let them know if they need anything, so on and so forth. It feels endless, and Stiles just wants to go home and sleep. 

It unsettling because he knows how close they actually did come to losing her. If his grandfather hadn’t taught him that neat little blood trick, they would have fallen at the last hurdle. Been forced to put her down like a sick dog rather than risk exposure and Stiles hates it. 

He’s been on Earth since before the fall of the Ottoman Empire, and he can honestly say he’s not been able to be genuinely himself in all that time. Which is frankly pathetic if you ask him. If he was really honest with himself, he doesn’t think he's been genuinely himself since he realised how different he was from everyone else in his grandmother’s court...which was when he was about 10. 

He’s tired of pretending, of always having to be in character. He can’t be truthful to a human, because he doesn’t want to risk a torches and pitchforks situation. He can’t really tell his parents how he feels because they’ve already sacrificed so much just to keep him alive. He definitely can’t be himself in either of the courts. 

He’s lonely, even now surrounded by people that want to help and have the best intentions, he’s never felt more alone. 

So he cries, dressed in a stupid children’s suit that doesn’t even fit him right. He cries in frustration that he has to live this way, cries that he almost lost his mother to some idiot just interested in money, and he cries because he’s so alone.

* * *

Stiles has spent the last three years making sure his father lives long enough to see his mother again, and it’s beginning to wear down his patience. 

His mother is gone, and life moves on, but Stiles isn’t convinced that he or his father really know how to function anymore. 

She’s not dead, but for the next 14 years, she might as well be.

It certainly feels like she is. 

He loves his parents so incredibly dearly, and he knows that even that pales in comparison to how much they love each other. They haven’t been parted for the last thousand years, and he can only imagine how jarring it must feel to be parted with what is effectively the other half of your soul after spending so long together. Stiles also remembers Uncle Rowan talking once about the pain that comes when your bonded dies in such a heartbroken voice that Stiles clung to his side for an entire week afterwards.

Stiles dreads finding out who his own soul bonded is. 

He’s lost in his thoughts for hours, aimlessly wandering around the Beacon Hills Preserve since the middle school teachers are on strike giving him a much appreciated day off when he notices something isn’t right. 

Something is _very_ not right. 

Stiles lifts his head to try and pinpoint exactly what’s pinging his spidey senses. 

The smell of smoke slowly starts to drift his way along with the sickly smell of wolfsbane. His brain adds two and two together and gets _Extreme danger_. 

So, of course, he bolts straight towards it. 

The only people that live anywhere near are the Hale wolves, and the presence of wolfsbane so close to their home has him immediately aware he was about to have to deal with hunters. What fun.

Even running at full speed it takes him about ten minutes to reach the blazing Hale house. During which time he is desperately calling every emergency service in hopes he can stop the impending massacre. 

It’s worse than Stiles has mentally prepared for when he arrives. From the outside, it’s clear the flames have worked their way through the entire house, and if the fire crews don’t come soon, the whole preserve is at risk of catching fire. 

Stiles approaches from the rear and its as he jogs to the front of the house looking for the best way in that he spots the hunter responsible. She’s young, fierce and beautiful, and had the situation in front of her been almost anything else he would have appreciated the joy and sheer delight on her face. 

Seeing it now just made him nauseous. 

It didn’t take much for him to get the drop on her. A quick notice-me-not adjustment to his glamour and a sound blocking spell, not that he really needed it has him sprinting towards her before sending a well-timed boot to the side of her head. Honestly, he probably could have walked up to her with a marching band, and she wouldn’t have noticed with how she had been so enraptured with the flames.

Sick bitch. 

With the hunter unconscious, he returns back to the preeminent problem in front of him. 

Right, fire.

 _Painful, painful fire_. 

Bounty hunters had once set their house on fire about a hundred years ago, and Stiles still remembers the fear that had clawed at the back of his throat and how he had wished with all his might someone would save them. He refuses to let someone else, someone potentially human or unable to heal like he can do, suffer through that if he can help it. 

Even if he is absolutely terrified. 

With a grimace, because this is absolutely not how he had planned to spend his day, he runs forward. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he moves the winds around him to break the mountain ash line and open the front door. 

Stiles can hear the floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses the threshold. He isn’t feeling particularly positive over the lack of noise, but his senses tell him there are definitely people here somewhere. 

Stiles is directing the winds to push the flames out of the way, but it’s increasingly difficult. The fire is fierce, and the sheer heat makes it hard to concentrate. He’s managed about 4 or 5 steps into the house when he looks to his right. His heart instantly drops to his stomach and yet also rockets into his throat. 

Hidden under the kitchen table is Cora Hale from his class. 

He’s instantly so relieved that he dropped his glamour before he entered the house. He definitely doesn’t want to deal with his dad’s disappointed face #5 if she had recognised him and started asking questions. Being able to move around in his adult body also makes this hatchet style rescue job a lot easier to carry out. 

Only Cora has now spotted him, and despite clearly being very frightened and more than likely very weak from the smoke, she’s growling at him through teeny tiny pointed teeth. If it hadn’t all been so imminent death-y, he would have cooed at how cute she was. 

Like an angry hedgehog. 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate though, as he darts forward and lifts her up into his arms. She tries to wiggle away, but the smoke is starting to get to her making her fractionally easier to deal with. 

Stiles runs for the door with his bite prone charge just as the floorboards in the kitchen start to crack right where he was standing. He doesn’t have time to be thankful for the close call because he knows if Cora is here, there have to be others in the house and he has to try to find them before it’s too late. 

He deposits Cora on the grass, and he’s pleased to see that now they are in the open her body is already processing the wolfsbane smoke out of her lungs.

“Cora, I need you to listen to me. I know you don’t trust me, but I’m trying to help, where are the others?”

She looks conflicted for a second, like she’s trying to push down her natural reaction of being as difficult as possible, before she tells him in slightly choked off words that they are trapped in the basement. 

“I’m going back in to try and get them out, the police and the fire department are almost here so hang tight okay?” 

He doesn’t even wait for her to respond before he’s running back in, pushing the flames and smoke once more out of his way. 

It’s not easy and in his opinion takes far too long before he finds the door that goes to the basement. 

He hopes he looks like a Grade A action star when he kicks the door down, because who has time for handles anymore? Definitely not Stiles. But then, there isn’t really anyone available to see so, a moot point.

Stiles is immediately faced with someone passed out of the steps down to the basement, and it’s then he notices the line of mountain ash he stomped through that was in front of the door. How the hunter bitch managed that he has no idea, but now is not the time to go analytical deep-sea diving into the minds of psycho hunters because there’s a man practically melting in front of him. God damn, he needs to focus because it’s a serious test of his concentration to keep the flame at bay with one hand and hoist the man off of the stairs with the other. 

It feels like it takes half a century to drag the man out of the fire and Stiles is actively not thinking about how he can see pieces of this guys flesh falling off. He isn’t sure even werewolf healing will be bringing this guy back from that. The guys a total deadweight in his arms, the fact he’s unconscious is probably small mercy to him. Still, if Stiles strains his ears, he can make out the faint heartbeat and very shallow breathing. The sheer force of will he must be having to expend to stay alive was incredibly impressive. 

They manage to stagger out of the front door and Stile could honestly cry happy tears because he can hear the fire sirens at long last. 

Or he would if previously unconscious hunter bitch wasn’t currently pointing a gun at a rather growly Cora. 

He rather unceremoniously dumps the man’s body on the scorched ground, the sound drawing both the hunters attention and gun away from Cora to him. 

“Cora run!” He shouts out, and the young werewolf definitely doesn’t need telling twice because she’s off like a shot into the tree line. 

“Why the hell are you getting in my way you little shit? You're clearly not a Were, so why are you saving the mutts?” 

And honestly, at this point, Stiles doesn’t even believe she’s worth a response. So he just doesn’t bother to give her one.

He runs forward before she can blink, his right leg lifting and makes contact with her wrists, causing the gun to go flying out of her grip. She’s glaring at him with such ferocity that if looks could kill Stiles is sure he would already be ashes scattered into the winds. 

She reaches for another weapon but stops with a jolt when the sound of sirens becomes increasingly louder. Stiles has stopped as well to try gauge what her next move is. Honestly, he doesn’t want to be here when other people arrive either but if this horror of a human intends to tango he will go absolutely feral on this bitch with only minimal regrets.

Clearly not being seen here is vastly more important for her because before Stiles can send another hit in her direction, she’s high tailing it into the preserve, thankfully in the opposite direction to Cora. He takes it as his own cue to get the hell out of dodge when he hears to telltale sounds of his dad’s cruiser. He drops another notice-me-not glamour on and heads to the tree line to watch. 

Stiles waits just long enough to make sure the man he dragged out is still alive and safely in an ambulance before he turns and heads home. There’s little else he can do now to help the others in the house, and his dad would ground him for at least a month if he revealed himself. He contemplates running off to find Cora but Stiles will admit he isn’t the worlds best tracker, and she’s probably gone to find her siblings. He knows they are likely to still be in class at Beacon Hills High School and she’s a wolf after all, and finding them by scent is what he would do in her situation. 

He heads home and collapses on his bed, tired from using a decently large amount of magic and all the heavy werewolf lifting he had to do. When his dad tells him the next day at breakfast that the Hale siblings have decided to move to New York, Stiles forgets to ask how many siblings he is referring to. 

* * *

“You’ve been summoned.”

“What in the who?”

Stiles is tired okay? He’s spent the last week running around like an electrocuted chicken with its head cut off trying to figure out what big bad they had to deal with. Well, that and trying to get the pack to listen to him for just once. So when the words fall out of his mouth with all of the grace of a baby dear, he gives absolutely zero fucks. 

His Dad looks at him with that resigned and weary expression that honestly Stiles is convinced is now his default expression. At least when dealing with him, it is.

“Your Grandmother has sent a summons. She needs you to visit pronto and....well sit down before you hear the next bit.”

Stiles drops into a chair at the kitchen table. Honestly, he just wanted to grab some food and throw himself into his bed. He finally has a day off from the store tomorrow and he's fully intending on a sleep not that dissimilar to a coma. Still, the increasingly bad vibes his Dad is giving off have him all kinds of nervous.

“What’s this about Dad? Gran-gran doesn’t just summon for the hell of it. Hell, the last time she summoned me across must have been like 18 years ago now.”

Noah sighs and drinks from a whiskey glass Stiles is suspiciously sure wasn’t there a second ago.

“Your Uncle Rowan has died Stiles.”

Well fuck. 

“What the hell do you mean Uncle Rowan is dead? He can’t just be dead! He’s Uncle Rowan for god sake, he’s objectively the best person in the entire universe. He’s not allowed to die. Not even a goddamn dragon could take him out. I remember Dad, I was there!”

Stiles has already up-ended the kitchen table and is now pacing furiously around the kitchen. Noah remains seated, that same resigned expression on his face and honestly, it is starting to irritate Stiles just a little bit.

He wants to punch something, hurt something. Hell, just do something. This isn’t right, this isn’t fair. 

The kitchen lights flicker in time with the increasing speed of his breathing. 

This can’t be right, not Uncle Rowan. Anyone but Uncle Rowan. 

The ground shakes with the same frequency as his jackrabbit heartbeat.

God, what is he going to do? How is he supposed to handle this?

An electric buzzing begins to reach a crescendo in his ears, matched only by the sound of blood pumping through his veins.

His Dad’s arms wrap themselves around his shoulders, pulling him into an iron gripped hug. For a brief moment, everything stops. A false peace settling for a quick moment before Stiles feels his Dad’s tears fall on his face. 

The power across Beacon Hills goes out as Stiles screams with grief

* * *

Stiles does not like mornings as a general life rule. He especially doesn't like mornings when he's only had 3 hours of sleep. Top that off with the fact a raging headache erupting across his senses the very second he opens his eyes. Clearly spending the night crying into a bottle of enchanted whiskey with his dad was not his smartest idea. 

He wants nothing more than to sink back into the emotional void that his bed offers. Unfortunately, he has shit to do today that can’t be avoided. And maybe, just maybe, if he powers through everything and acts vaguely normal, he can avoid thinking about the bleeding chasm in his heart that had burst forth when his dad told him about Uncle Rowan. 

The act of actually getting himself out of bed requires a herculean effort on his part. A bad sign for the rest of the day. 

Stiles shuffles downstairs at a snail's pace, poking his head into the living room to see his dad is still very much passed out of the couch. Unsurprising if he's honest considering the current unholy hour of the morning. 

It takes him an hour or so to get ready to leave. He slowly potters around the house, making breakfast and coffee for himself, and some for his dad to reheat, who will awake once it is no doubt long past midday. He takes a somewhat leisurely shower in an attempt to stave off having to leave the house. Throwing on some clothes with minimal effort, he leaves the house just as the sun starts to peek over the horizon. Stiles is certain being up this early should be a criminal offence. 

He's got errands to run before he can respond to his grandmother's summons. Mostly refreshing the wards around Beacon Hills to make sure this Hellmouth of a town doesn't actually fall into the bowels of hell once he’s left. With Scott in charge with no supervision, though, it's a distinct possibility. 

It takes all morning driving to each of the ward locations, making sure they are as strong as they possibly can be. Leaving Beacon Hills, however, feels…different. He worries about the ramifications it will have on the town and the pack, not to mention the broader supernatural community, once he’s gone. Stiles is once again so very glad Chris and Allison have finally come back to Beacon Hills. Maybe between the two of them, they can help to counteract Scott’s lacklustre leadership and strategic planning abilities. 

Stiles has left numerous friends and places behind in his many years on earth, often with little regret. He’s certainly never felt this uncertain about leaving somewhere behind. 

He’d be a fool to deny that the past 9 years or so, ever since Scott got bitten that fateful night, have been the closest Stiles has felt to finding his place in the world. Disappearing certainly feels let cut and dry than ever before, and it’s making him increasingly nauseous.

That’s all of course without thinking about how Rowan’s death has left him with an even bigger target on his head than ever before. With Rowan gone and his dad not allowed to take the throne, Stiles will have to deal with becoming the Crown Prince of the Seelie court.

 _What fun_. 

Not that even being Crown Prince means much. Rowan had been Crown Prince for about as long as Christianity has existed after all and Titania doesn't seem to have any intention of handing over her crown. If Stiles has any input on the matter, she won’t be handing the crown over for at least another few millennia. 

His wavering concentration causes the ward to dissolve, and it’s all he can do not to swear until he’s blue in the face. 

“You know the whole idea of placing wards around this god awful town is to leave them be and let them do their job, so you don’t have to fiddle with them all the time.”

Stiles doesn’t need to turn round to know which pain in the ass werewolf has snuck upon him. That voice has been the source of many an intense eye roll after all.

“In fact, I very distinctly remember helping you set this very ward only last week. So it’s curious you need to do anything with it at all...unless your magic just isn’t as potent as it used to be. These things happen to the best of us, after all. Common problem”

“In men your age maybe.” Stiles snarks back, finally giving up on this particular ward to turn round and face his current irritant. 

Peter Hale in all his devilish, v-neck wearing, manscaped glory grins wickedly at him, taking it as an unspoken victory that he managed to rile Stiles so quickly.

The bastard.

“And by help,” Stiles continues chagrined, “I think you mean you sat around and pouted for half an hour before you stuck your hands down my pants and made me screw up and have to start the whole thing all over again.”

Peter just smirks at him, slowly prowling towards Stiles with clear intent and, god, he looks like absolute sin.

Stiles couldn’t even look that that if he practised for 100 years but somehow, a genetic blessing no doubt, Peter manages it so effortless. When they are alone, and Stiles is very aware thank you very much of just how utterly alone they are right now because they are in the mild of god damn nowhere, that trademark look always seems to intensify. And damn does it make it uncomfortable in Stiles underwear.

“Okay creeperwolf, try to remember to leave room for Jesus.” Stiles manages to splutter out while he awkwardly half jumps half skips back away from Peter, who in turn just cocks his head and frowns slightly, pausing in his approach.

“Sorry Snuffles, but it’s actually critical levels of important I finish up with these wards as soon as physically possible. Lots to do today. Fingers in pies, irons in fires you know the drill.” Stiles is quite happy to just keep rambling. Still, clearly Peter didn’t get the memo because he’s very quickly crowding Stiles up against the nearest tree, bracketing him in by placing his arms either side of Stiles's shoulders. 

Peter is all of about 3 inches from his face, and Stiles knows he has to diffuse the situation. No matter how much his hindbrain is rebelling and literally any other time, he would have already been on his knees. Still, he can’t do that right now. Can’t do that ever again.

With a strength of will that honestly even Stiles is surprised he possesses, he places his hands on the wolfs chest and pushes him away lightly. 

“Back it up, Peter, I’m serious. Now just isn’t the time.” Peter obliges and moves back but only an inch or so. Stiles can still smell his delicious but ridiculously expensive aftershave, the one that Peter only seems to wear when sex is on the agenda. Stiles secretly suspects some kind of Pavlov's dog experiment is being run on him with it.

Brain wanderings aside, Peter is now looking at him expectedly, clearly wanting an explanation for the sudden deviation of their regular routine. Suddenly Stiles feels like he has ash in his mouth and a lead weight in his stomach. Stiles had foolishly hoped he could have avoided this conversation, that he could have gone the coward's way out and done this all over text once he was out of Beacon Hills. Once he didn't have to deal with the emotional fallout that is no doubt about to rain down upon him. 

It's his own fault really for allowing things to get this far and go on for so long. Truthfully, he’s been putting off this conversation since the very beginning when they started these little tête-à-têtes. 

They aren’t in a relationship, Stiles refused to let them put that label on what was between them. After all, this is him and Peter Hale they are talking about. Nevermind the fact they see each other at least 2 or 3 times a week. Or that they keep spare clothes at each others apartment. Defiantly ignoring the fact that Stiles knows Peter’s blood type and social security number, you know in case of emergencies. Forgetting altogether the ridiculous amount of money Peter has spent buying an absurd amount of gifts for Stiles over the years.

Yep, _totally_ not in a relationship.

It all started after the whole debacle with the wild hunt, when they had first become unexpectedly close. Even staying in contact while Stiles was briefly in Quantico, despite Stiles hardly speaking to anyone from Beacon Hills while he was away. When Stiles had given it up as a bad idea and returned to Beacon Hills, the tension has built between them until one night a breaking point was reached. An extended research session together evolved into a battle of snark and then a full-blown screaming argument before finally the two fell into bed and didn’t emerge for the rest of the weekend. To this day, Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell you who kissed who first.

For the last four years, the pair have managed to keep the pack none the wiser. Privately, Stiles wonders exactly what that says about the observational skills of their pack or lack thereof. Stiles has been careful to always keep at least some emotional distance between the two of them. 

He is going to have a soulbond once he hit his majority after all and He knows what is expected of him. Know that he is expected to cut off all prior romantic commitments that he made before he found out who his bonded is. 

He's put this off for long enough and now quite literally the last chance he will have to at least honour the rather spectacular time they have had together the last few years. Even with his current burning desire to run and hide from what he's about to say.

And if Stiles stops lying to himself for half a second, deep down he knows he has put it off because he is at least a little bit in love with the wolf…okay, more than a little bit.

For all his hard work attempting to keep things casual and uncomplicated between the two of them, he can’t deny the rush he feels whenever Peter so much as crosses his mind.

"Peter, we can't ...I can't...we shouldn't do this anymore, okay? This thing between us has to stop." It's hard to even spit the words out right now. It hurts like he's shoved a hand inside his own chest and with every word he is breaking his heart a little more. "My uncle…god, my uncle died last night, and I need to go help my grandmother take care of everything. I..I won’t be coming back, Peter." 

He doesn't look directly at Peter as he talks, his eyes are fixed on a spot on the ground off to his right, but that doesn't stop him from attempting to watch Peter’s reaction in his peripheral vision. 

Peter is frozen in place like his brain can't quite process what is going on around him. He's got the look on his face that he only gets when he's in severe physical pain and trying to hide it from those around him. 

It makes Stiles hate himself just a little bit more. 

"Is this because I asked for a key?"

Stiles jerks his head up quickly to look at Peter in confusion, before remembering they had ended up arguing a few days ago when Peter had asked for a key to Stiles apartment. Stiles had refused, even though Stiles has had a key to Peters place since about 6 months in this whatever they are. 

"It's not about the key Peter. It's not about that at all, it's.."

"Then what the fuck is this about _Stiles_?" Peter interrupts him with a snarl. It's quite clearly a struggle for Peter to maintain his control right now, his eyes flickering between his standard light blue and werewolf luminescent.

Peters anger makes this all slightly easier to deal with, in some bizarre way. Anger is an emotional Stiles can cope with and won’t crumble under the pressure of. He's about to pull some bullshit excuse out of his ass, some crap about family honour and responsibility. Or he was, but for some reason, his mouth is moving faster than his brain is, and he can't stop the next words from tumbling out.

"I'm getting married, Peter." 

One day in the near future, in fact as soon as about ten minutes in the future, Stiles will look back on this moment as one of the truly lowest points, and fucking dumbest, of his life. 

He doesn't expect the slap, but he would be lying if he said he didn't deserve it.

"Don't you dare lie to me, don't you dare fucking lie to me. You don't think that after four years you might, just maybe, have mentioned this?" 

Stiles sighs and honestly, he just wants the ground to swallow him at this point. This is what he wants, right? To end things and for Peter to hate him?

No, it’s most defiantly not what he wants, but it's what he needs to do. 

He steels himself because a prince goddamn it and Uncle Rowan raise him better than this. It would be an insult to his memory to back out of his obligations now. No matter how much every other part of him is screaming _wrongwrongwrongstopdontdothis_

He calms his breathing to a steady pace, slowing his heartbeat in the process. Lying to a werewolf takes skill after all.

With another sigh, Stiles slams the proverbial final nail in the coffin.

" It's an arranged marriage, I don't even know who its to. And before you say anything, no, I can't get out of it. Its been planned since like forever, longer than I've been alive anyway" None of that is technically a lie after all Stiles tries to mentally rationalise. "It's supposed to happen around my birthday or something like that. Dad will be moving after my birthday as well so...so there isn’t really any reason to come back after the funeral. My grandmother needs me the most, and there’s nothing to keep me in Beacon Hills. I’m sure...Im sure whoever I'm with won't want to deal with the shit-show that is this town anyway. 

The look on Peter’s face is one Stiles had only seen that one time Cora got sick with mistletoe poisoning, way back when the Darach was enjoying her 15 minutes of fame. 

It’s the face that says that for all his planning something he genuinely cares about is slipping from his grasp and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it. 

" It's been fun, Peter, really really fun actually. But we weren't...we weren't serious, hell we weren't even dating. Not really. And you knew that you've always known that." 

Nice Stiles, just ram the knife in a little bit more, that's a great idea, he thinks bitterly to himself. 

The silence is brittle and condemning, and Stiles finds he can't look at Peter anymore. He turns his attention to his shoes and waits. 

"Well, how illuminating. I must commend you on a game well played. But maybe next time Stiles you might want to start with all this. You know, so people don't get confused about whether or not all the late nights and gifts and having a draw for your clothes at their apartment means anything serious."

Stiles winces because Peter’s voice sounds like absolute venom. He can practically hear the sneer that's no doubt on his now-ex lovers face.

_wrongwrongwrongstopdontdothispleasestopdontleave_

"Just tell me one last thing, did none of this, truly nothing at all, mean anything to you?"

"No."

When Stiles looks up, Peter is gone.

* * *

Stiles is shell shocked and hollow by the time he makes it to the store he owns in Beacon Hills town centre. 

He doesn’t open the central part of the store. Instead, he heads to the apartment above. He owns both the store and apartment thanks to his parents making several smart investments over their time on earth.

Stiles opened The Trading Post not long after he returned from Quantico after he realised he could capitalize on all the different entities that were drawn to the Nemeton. Well, that and he was bored. A regular old human job was never going to satisfy him. That’s why the whole FBI thing didn’t work out, he was defiantly never destined for pencil-pushing desk duty.

His little store quickly became a staple in the supernatural community, and really he was surprised no one had thought to do something like before. It was half supernatural pawnshop, half facilitator of mercenary requests, with the added unofficial capacity of being a neutral meeting ground. It had taken a very very stern talk from his dad and Lydia to convince him not to call it a Guild Hall and make it Dungeons and Dragons themed. He’s still bitter about that. 

Owning The Trading Post works well for Stiles though, he gets to learn a lot of secrets and surprising little tidbits of knowledge that he otherwise wouldn’t have access to. And considering secrets are an utmost delicacy to those of Fae blood, he didn't even mind having to work on Mondays. 

The apartment isn’t huge, a simple one-bedroom space that is more storage unit than home and hearth. Everything is all white-walled and laminate flooring and just... basic. Functional and practical for his needs but that’s about it. After all, he often splits his time between the apartment and his dad's house, not truly able to leave his father to rattle around the house alone. 

Stiles pauses in the doorway to the bedroom. It's a hard task to stop himself physically recoiling when he spots the bed sheets are still a mess from a few nights ago when he was here with Peter. 

He forces himself onward and into the kitchen and towards his small stock of alcohol that he keeps around for appearance sake. Human alcohol has almost no effect on Stiles. But the burning sensation that accompanies cheap vodka is still present, and that’s what hes chasing when he quickly downs a double shot. 

He's got a lot of phone calls to make and letters to send. The day has already crept into the afternoon, Stiles knows he can't spend any more time on the rancid collection of emotions currently causing his heart to fester. 

In a tribute to one of his favourite hunter, Stiles enacts the patented Chris Argent method of compartmentalizing every single emotional he has, then shoving them all in a box deep down in the dark. Along with a promise to deal with them in about 10 years, of course.

It's a spur of the moment idea actually when he decides that rather than close down his entire operation, he shall leave it to the ageing hunter. It’s generous, Stiles tells himself, a parting gift. It’s…his way of being a coward and passing his responsibilities on to someone else. Forcing someone else to make the final decision and allowing Stiles to skip town with as little as possible to feel guilty about. 

Maybe despite everything he said to Peter, he still wants a reason to come back to Beacon Hills. 

He picks up his phone and leans back against his kitchen counters. He goes to dial Chris's number like he has done hundreds of times over the years, but when he looks, his hands are shaking wildly, and he can’t get them to do what he wants. Clearly, he hasn't gotten that special argent emotional shut down quite right just yet. 

He closes his eyes as he tries to centre himself, but all he can see are mental spectres of Uncle Rowan and Peter. He hates how he can't stop thinking about how well the two would have gotten on. If he hadn’t just lost both of them, that is.

His decides to down three more shots. 

"Breath Stiles, you can you lose your shit later" he quietly mutters chastising himself. 

With a deep breath and a forced calm Stiles picks up his phone and calls Chris. 

* * *

_Stiles is a blur as he runs down the ridiculously long corridor like a hellhound is after him._

_His face splits into a wicked grin when he finally spots his target at the very far end of the corridor, back turned and talking to someone unknown._

_He runs faster before pushing off into the air and straight onto his targets back._

_"Uncle Row! I missed you!"_

_His uncle laughs at his newly acquired barnacle before waving off the person he was talking to, some low-level courtier Stiles imagines._

_Stiles giggles as Rowan deftly shifts him off his shoulders and around onto his front with practised ease. Rowan's hands clasp together underneath Stiles, who has already wrapped his legs around his uncle's waist and is snuggling into his chest. Uncle Rowan has been away for agggeeesss, and Stiles is so relieved to finally have him back home._

_"So my little Mischief, your Gran-Gran tells me you flooded the entire southern wing while I was gone because you wanted to make the Selkie delegation feel more at home." Rowan starts conversely as he begins to wander the halls. Stiles cringes against his uncle’s chest before putting on his best pouty doe eyes as he looks up at his uncle. The very specific one that he knows Rowan can’t be mad at._

_His uncle looks back down at him with a grin and Stiles is relieved he isn't in any more trouble. Gran-Gran has already scolded him endlessly, and all he was trying to do was help!_

_As far as Stiles in concerned, his Uncle Rowan is the best person to ever exist. Point blank period, the end. Being away from him is simply the worst thing ever. He always hears people around the castle say how handsome Rowan is, how strong and talented he is, and Stiles knows he wants to be just like Rowan someday. After all, the things they tend to say about Stiles when they think can’t hear are defiantly less than flattering._

_Uncle Rowan is a solid 10 out of 10, and while his Gran-Gran will always tell him how handsome he is, Stiles knows he doesn’t hold a candle to Uncle Rowan. While Stiles is a tiny ball of ferocity and energy with gangly limbs and toothy grins that causes endless carnage and trouble for the castle servants, his Uncle Rowan is tall and robust, with his ridiculously floppy dark hair that all the servants seem to swoon over. The castle servants that also make it very well know how much they hate his eyes. They never say anything to his face, Gran-gran would without a doubt have their heads if they did, but when they think he can’t hear they all say how everything would be perfect if only he didn’t have his one eye that was that abhorrent Unseelie Gold._

_Uncle Rowan never seems to care about his eyes, though. In fact, Uncle Rowan always makes a point to tell him how pretty they and how Stiles’s gold eye look exactly like his mothers. Rowan tells Stiles all about his parents and that he should love his Unseelie heritage just as much as his Seelie heritage._

_Stiles has learnt to love his parents through the hundreds of stories Rowan has told him, but he doesn't know if he loves them as much as Rowan. How can he when he’s never met them? But then, he doesn't think he will ever love anyone as much as he loves his Uncle Rowan._

_Stiles is aware that the route they are taking leads to Rowan's private gardens, he isn't surprised since he's spent half his life at this point in those gardens._

_They chatter as they walk, Rowan listening intently as Stiles tells him about everything hes been up to since Rowan left on his trip two months ago. He nods and laughs in all the right places, and it causes Stiles to bask in the attention. He’s missed this._

_The gardens themselves are more of an outdoor den than much else. The main area is a vast field, encased by tall oak trees on all sides while in various scattered patches are herbs beds, rose bushes and a multitude of different rare flowers that Rowan had collected on his many travels._

_Directly in the centre is a stone fire pit, enchanted to never go out. The earth surrounding it is dug out and covered in pelts and furs, more trophies from Rowan’s travels._

_They enter the gardens, and Stiles quickly clambers off his uncle, racing to his favourite spot next to the fire pit._

_The younger fae looks up at his uncle and watches as he casts what looks to be a privacy spell around the garden. It's then he notices that Rowan’s usually happy and relaxed demeanour has been replaced with something more serious and reserved._

_"What's wrong Uncle Row?" He asks hesitantly._

_With a sigh, the crown prince lowers himself into the dugout space next to the fire. There's a measured paused as Rowan looks somewhat torn._

_"When I was away, I found something very important. Something that you should know about." Rowan's silver eyes don't waiver from the young boys face as he speaks, every word measured and calculated before he speaks. Tension bursts into knots in Stiles shoulders and fears claws at his throat._

" _When I was on earth, I found your parents."_

_Stiles freezes once the words are out of his uncle's mouth. He was aware that his uncle was searching for his parents, had been for the last 25 years, ever since Stiles was brought to the castle. Stiles has always wanted to meet his birth parents, but does that mean he’ll lose his Uncle?_

_His eyes fill with tears, and he launches himself once again at his uncle._

_"Does that mean you're sending me away? Are you gonna leave me? I don't want to go!" He wails into his uncle comforting chest._

_Rowan lets out his own slightly watery chuckle before wrapping himself around the crying youngster, his eyes closed and lips pressed to the top of Stiles’s head._

_"Don't worry my little Mischief, you'll never lose me."_

_You'll never lose me._

With a spasming jolt, consciousness returns to Stiles, and it takes a moment for him to wade through the lingering fog of sleep to realise where he is. 

It had been a dream.

He isn't in the bright and warm garden of his early childhood, or safe in his uncle's arms. 

He’s lying in the dark on the couch in his apartment and oh so painfully alone. 

Stiles checks his phone and sees it has just hit midnight. He's also been bombarded by texts and missed calls from the pack. Clearly, Peter has very successfully gotten the word out he is leaving. 

_Scott - Dude, why is Peter so pissed off at you?_

_Scott - What the hell man?! Wtf is this about you leaving? Getting married?_

_Scott- Pick up Stiles, we need to talk. NOW._

_Lydia - If I've found out, from Peter Hale of all people, you were secretly engaged when we were dating I'm going to kill you myself._

_Lydia- Stiles answer the damn phone or else I'm calling your dad for an explanation_

_Derek- I always thought he would hurt you, not the other way around._

Stiles throws his phone down onto the couch after reading Derek's text. There are several more, but he can't deal with them right now. Obviously, he and Peter hadn't been quite as successful at keeping things on the down-low as they thought. Unless of course, Peter told Derek the truth, which he also really can't think about right now. 

He loses track of how long he sits in the dark, finding solace in the emotional numbness that seems to have successfully steeped into his bones. After a while, Stiles gathers the strength to finish packing up his belongs that he will be taking with him. Which is what he had been doing before he apparently passed out on the couch from emotional exhaustion. 

Sometime later, he finds himself locking the apartment door and with a small spell sends the key to Chris Argent’s mailbox. He arrives back at his dad’s house in record time, the roads being empty at this early hour of the morning. Stiles is incredibly lucky the streets where dead because his concentration is shot to hell and he’s pretty sure he drifted onto the wrong side of the road at least 4 times.

His dad has waited up for him to get home and that simple act right now is enough to almost set Stiles off crying, but he manages to hold himself together. Only just though. 

"You got everything done?" His dad asks as Stiles wanders into the kitchen. All the mess from the previous night’s meltdown has been cleaned up, leaving everything neatly back in its rightful place. It makes Stiles ever so slightly bitter about the contrast it has to the complete mess his life has just turned in to. 

"If you are referring to me pushing the proverbial self destruct button on all of my relationships here in this hellhole, then yeah Daddio I got everything done with remarkable efficiency." Stiles grinds out as he leans against the kitchen door frame for support. It has been the longest, most challenging few days of his life, and Danu only knows how Stiles is still upright.

" So I heard, had to deal with a banshee on the phone and a pack of wolves at my door with a ridiculous hangover," Noah says.

"Wait they actually called you, called here? I was surprised when they didn't come by the shop honestly, what did tell them?” Stiles splutters out.

Noah rises from his chair and walks towards his son before he answers. Stiles knows that his dad is wearing a glamour, in fact, he hasn't seen him without one on in about 100 years, but Stiles is suddenly struck by how weary and old his dad is starting to look. Like he wants nothing better than to sleep for the next 10 years, which is honestly a plan of action Stiles is considering for himself at the moment. 

It’s jarring to Stiles as he considers how genuinely awful his dad must be feeling right now. On the run for god knows how many years just so you could be with the person you love, only to be separated from them just before you can finally be together in peace. To not be able to go to the funeral and grieve for your only sibling. The sibling that was the only person in your family to always have you back no matter what happens and who practically raised your son because you couldn't. Knowing that your only child is about to become an adult, no longer yours to protect, and about to be thrust into an incredibly demanding and dangerous political position that should have been your responsibility to bear. 

Stiles supposed it was at least some comfort to know that his parents will be reuniting soon. 

"I told them the truth, technically. Said that it was none of their business and it wasn't something I had the power to change even if I wanted to. Told Scott in particular that maybe he should be asking himself why you didn't feel like this was something you could bring up to him if the two of you were as close as he believes." His dad informs him, jolting Stiles out of his musings. He's not wrong either, for all Stiles probably should have mentioned something at some point. Should have started dropping hints or clues or something a long time ago, he and Scott haven't exactly been the closest of friends for a long time now. After a while Stiles just sort of stopped trying to rectify that because Scott certainly wasn't putting in equal effort.

"I also told them," Noah continued "that you had already left town. Didn't think you would want them bothering you kiddo. Mortals really are incredibly selfish, aren't?" 

Well, that explains why he didn’t have angry wolves trying to break into his apartment. 

Stiles leans forward and pulls his dad into a bruisingly tight hug. Even after so many years around humans and even more years around the rather wild Claudia, Noah still had a little of his princely upbringing left in him. One that wasn't supposed to talk about feelings or emotions. Stiles imagined that growing up he had been a good and dutiful son, well right up until the point he ran away and was branded a traitor to the court at least.

Stiles knows he has to try to convey everything in this hug. His love for his dad, his sadness and grief, his gratitude above all else and just how much he will miss his dad over the next few months. The two men stay there for a long while, holding each other like it was the only thing stopping them both from shattering before Stiles pulls away first. He doesn't want to, wants to stay with his dad and pretend everything is fine, but he knows he can't. Everything is far from fine.

"Tell your mother I love her, and I’ll see her soon okay? And…look after your grandma for me? Knowing my mother, she will not be taking this well, by anyone's standards." Noah says letting out a slightly wet chuckle at the end. 

Stiles nods stiffly, that blessed numb feeling is slipping back into his very bones. He dreads thinking about the emotional mess he's going to be in when he actually has to sit down and process all this. He’ll be keeping several therapists in business for a very very long time while he works through this clusterfuck.

With a wave of his hand the belongings that he's taking with him, three enchanted duffel bags that hold much more space inside than they should and fit the majority of his worldly possessions, appear at his feet. 

Stiles sends his dad a sad smile, and with another wave and a sharp crack, he leaves Beacon Hills behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this out! I've been messing about and rewriting it for ages. Whilst I'm still not 100% happy with it, if I stare at it much longer I might lose my mind.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and thank you all for such a lovely response to the first chapter!

Landing in the Summerlands is like waking up in a slightly hazy, faintly sepia-toned Teletubby land. More specifically, He's landed in The Inbetween, a lawless neutral ground that separates the two courts. 

Quite frankly, Stiles has always hated The Inbetween. Not because it feels like a Willy Wonka acid trip gone wild, but because it's the very physical manifestation of his grandparent's hatred for one another. It's a representation of the awkward position he's been in since the day he was born, pulled continuously between the two opposing sides.

In reality, The Inbetween is a relatively small section of land compared to the vast sprawling expenses that make up the two courts. Its roughly three leagues wide and, since the Summerlands seemingly exists to fuck with all known laws of nature and physics, infinitely long. It irritates Stiles purely on principle, so he tries not to overthink it. He starts to picture both Lydia and Peter bitching about it, before swiftly drop-kicking the thought from his mind. Thinking about either of his former partners is only going to endanger his increasingly fragile mental stability.

Stiles is exhausted as he glances warily around the Inbetween. There is an energy about the place that always put him on edge. Everything that grows in The Inbetween is wild and unruly, beautiful yet dangerous and undoubtedly powerful. It is Fae in a raw, unfiltered form, removed from the ridiculous pretence of society or politics. It's an unmitigated rebellion from organisation, rolling hills mixed with dense forests and unruly thickets of shrubbery. Plants and flora that exist nowhere else in existence, as well as ones from a conglomerate of worlds and realms. 

Stiles has to resist the urge to set it all on fire.

If pyrotechnics seem appealing then clearly he's been up far too long. Granted, it would be an excellent way to deal with the landslide of pretty shitty emotions he's had to deal with, but thankfully for everything and everyone that lives here, he's already used a little too much magic today.

He doesn't feel like he's an almost 300-year-old Fae prince right now, he feels like a child. A child that just wants a hug from his mama to make him feel like everything's going to be okay in this terrifying world. 

"Someone stop the world I want to get off" Stiles mutters to himself as he stumbles forward. He only just catches himself as he's hit with a painful rush of dizziness and nausea. God, he doesn't know how much longer he's going to be able to stay upright.

Stiles continues to stagger and stumble as he lurches forward, sheer stubbornness quite literally the only thing keeping him upright, towards the two stone dais about 500 feet in front of him. 

His eyes aren't even open as he all but throws himself onto the right side dais. However Stiles does have the foresight to use the remaining dregs of his strength to make sure he's at least stood upright as the magic pulls through him, and he lands in the receiving room of his grandma's palace. If he had landed sprawled out and looking half dead, Gran-Gran would probably imprison him for a decade for the near heart attack she would no doubt have.   
  
Stiles is pretty sure a mild breeze would be able to bowl him over right now, so when he's pulled into a warm embrace, he doesn't fight it. It takes a heartbeat before he realises the familiar scent of wild heather belongs to his mother. 

Stiles melts into her even though she's slightly shorter than him. The previous stubbornness forcing him forward dissolves in an instant, and his legs can't hold him up anymore. His knees crack roughly against the stone floor, but he can't find it in him to care. Long arms slip around Claudia's stomach, and as she kneels onto the floor to meet him, his face dives into the crook of her neck. 

It's then that he breaks. 

Tears spill down his face unrepentantly, and his entire body is shaking. His hands fist up like hooks in his mother's clothes, his grip harsh and vice-like. His breath starts to come out in gasps, and he begins to sob almost hysterically for all he's lost. For his Uncle, for Peter, and for the life and friends he's just given up. 

Claudia doesn't say a word. It's been a stressful few days here since Rowan died to say the least, but all she's cared about was getting her son back into her arms to try to offer him even the smallest comfort. It breaks her heart to see her precious boy in pain, but she knows the best things she can do for right now is hold him. 

So Claudia holds him as tightly as she can while he shatters in her arms. 

She doesn't feel the muscle fatigue set into her arms or the cold seep into her legs. When an hour or so later Stiles finally succumbs to exhaustion and passes out, she continues to hold him as he sleeps. 

Even as Claudia carries Stiles through the castle and tucks him into her bed, he doesn't rouse. Tomorrow and the following days and weeks will no doubt be hard, but right now even subconsciously he knows he is safe in his mother's arms. 

* * *

For the second time in as many days, waking up feels like an inhumane punishment sent by some malevolent higher power to fuck with him. The sensation is akin to coming up for air after being at the bottom of an ocean of molasses. 

It reminds Stiles of that one time he died so he could find his dad. Ahh, the good old days.

Even just thinking about that causes him to wince. This is after all the first time he's seen his mom since then and no doubt once all the emotional reunions and court-related fanfare is out of the way she'll tear him a new asshole for putting his life at risk and risking potential exposure.

You know, kind of like everyone else had done at the time.

Gods, his dad had been furious with him when they got home. Once Stiles had explained the ritual to him, Stiles legitimately thought his dad was going to have some kind of aneurysm. Noah had fired off a message to Rowan, who had arrived within the hour and joined his dad in royally sanctioned angry yelling. Having two towering angry Fae yelling at you in tandem for what certainly felt like an aeon was all kinds of not fun.

What had been notably even less fun was discovering that the sacrifice had him susceptible to mental invasion from what Stiles is sure is the world's most irritating Nogitsune.

From the second Stiles got the uninvited brain invader he had to resist the urge to gouge out his eyeballs because the fox.Would.Not.Shut.Up. 

It had been the longest goddamn three days of Stiles life.

Hell, he knew he talked a lot, but Stiles was 100% positive he wasn't at the Nogistunes level of whiny. Dishonour this, revenge that _blah blah blah_. Granted, the fluffy rage monster had some validity to his arguments, but that was no excuse for depriving Stiles of his precious sleep. 

With a little bit of fancy arcane magic, courtesy of his Gran-Gran when she found out about the whole mess, Noah and Rowan had been able to enter Stiles mind to evict his unwanted house guest. 

Rowan had rather gleefully returned to the Seelie Court after that, the fox once again imprisoned in a glass jar tucked under the crown princes arm. The last time Stiles had seen his uncle look like that, Rowan had just decapitated a rather bitchy Siren that had just tried to drown him. Stiles felt a teeny stab of pity for the fox, but honestly, he had brought the whole thing on himself.

After that though, Stiles had finally been able to have a couple of quiet months before the next Beacon Hills melodrama special descended.

It would be ridiculously easy for Stiles to stew in his memories of the last few years. Unfortunately, his mother doesn't seem to have lost her 'Crap Stiles is awake' radar that she developed long ago and is bursting through the bedroom like an autumnal gale ploughing through dying leaves.

Stiles finally has a chance to look at her properly for the first time since he arrived. It's peculiar seeing her in her natural form, but honestly, it explains a lot of Stiles's early interest in Lydia, and he's surprised it's taken until now for him to realise. Her hair is a mane of auburn and blonde that at a fleeting glance looks like it's on fire. Like the majority of bipedal Fae she's tall and lean, facial structure far too sharp to ever be mistaken for a human and when she smiles rows of sharp, needlepoint teeth greet him. In Stiles opinion, she's one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen. 

She's in a simple dress, long-sleeved, with a modest v neckline and floor-length. Dark navy fabric is covered in a light silver brocade pattern that indicates her allegiance to her father's court. It's the heavy dark rose gold collar, however, that causes Stiles to cringe. It's an undeniable message to his mother's position as a political prisoner, and Stiles mood sours even further at the sight of it.

"My precious boy, if it were up to me I'd let you sleep for the next week. Unfortunately, your grandmother has requested your appearance for breakfast." Stiles grumbles and makes unintelligible sounds that manage to draw a half chuckle, half exasperated sigh from his mother. "I have to head down there myself, so I'll leave you in peace to get ready. I grabbed some of your clothes from your old room while you were asleep so you can wear something appropriate." 

Stiles is levelled with a look that lets him know that yes, his mother does still remember that one time he showed up to an important meal the last time he was here wearing capris and a crop top. 

She stops just briefly to place a kiss on his forehead before she's out the door in her usual whirlwind style. 

For a prisoner, his mother's room is remarkably pleasant. By no means as extravagant as his grandmother bedroom or even his own but it's spacious and homely. Stone floors are covered with what appears to be a dire wolf pelt that almost takes up the entire floor space, something that causes a quick stab of pain and guilt that Stiles pushes away as quickly as it arrives.

Stiles moves automatically as he drags himself out of bed and begins to get ready for the day. His attention is miles away, an entire realm away to be exact, but it only takes him ten minutes to autopilot his way through getting dressed. He sends a cursory glance at the mirror attached to the back of the door, and his reflection stops him in his tracks.

It's been a while since he's seen himself without his glamour, and continuously looking 'not yourself' definitely does a number on a person's mental image of themselves. He's mildly thankful that he has made sure his glamours have closely resembled his natural features. Rather than the back catalogue of elaborate and varied glamours his parents often sported, he always like to keep as simple and as similar as he could manage, but it's still jarring.

His hair is slightly darker, only a few shades away from being black but otherwise the same in terms of length and texture. His facial structure is much like his mothers, although he's slightly taller without his glamour and while overall he is thinner, his natural form certainly has more muscle definition.

It's his eyes mostly that have him feeling off-kilter. The persecution they've brought him and his parents has certainly never sat well with him, but coupled with the loss of Rowan seeing them reignites a cold fury that crawls over his bones. 

It is then that he absently notices the clothes he is wearing. Like most Fae garments, everything is covered in intricate embroidery and applique and is pointlessly fancy. Gods, he looks like he belongs at a renaissance fair or like he is some kind of extra in The Witcher. Although the thing catching his attention, causing his general dislike for Fae clothing to be cast aside, is the colour. Stiles is usually required to wear grey outfits, again pointlessly bureaucracy not to state any outright loyalty or favour, but the clothes he has put on today are black with dark grey detailing.

It's a brutal reminder that he is getting ready for a funeral. 

It is with a shaky breath that he abruptly turns away from the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer, and wrenches the door open and escaping into the hallway. 

He wonders when he will be okay again. When small and inconsequential things will stop sending him into a tailspin and wanting to run for the hills. When will he stop forgetting that pieces are now missing from his life, only to be hit like a freight train every time something reminds him? Logically he knows it is the grief talking, but he wonders if he will ever be genuinely okay again. 

With outer confidence that he definitely doesn't feel on the inside, Stiles heads off to see the Queen.

* * *

It's weirdly twisted and almost funny to Stiles that the last person whose funeral he went to is currently holding his hand while he stares into the roaring flames of his uncle's funeral pyre.   
  
It's late in the evening now. The ceremony had started at noon and lasted for what felt like a decade. It's a royal affair, and since it's for the crown prince, the entire court is in attendance. There's been songs and poems, reading and eulogies galore followed by a banquet of seemingly all the foods known to man. Finally, a procession as Rowan's body was carried out to the giant pyre in the centre of his private gardens, the very same one Stiles used to spend countless hours with him. 

Its symbolic Stiles supposes, and it's undoubtedly continuing the theme of him losing everything he loves or that ever brought him joy. 

He can't bring himself to cry anymore. Even when he visited Rowan's body with his mother, he didn't cry. He doesn't even feel sadness anymore, all he can feel is the sensation of lost. Like his anchor has been pulled up and he's been left to float out at sea. His mother had whispered soothingly at him that it just looked like Rowan was asleep, but even then all he could think was if he's just asleep then why doesn't he wake up. Why can't Stiles just shake him and wake him up? Why can't he just wake up? 

He wants to yell, scream and punch and hurt. He wants someone to hurt the way he's hurting, but he can't. Instead, it's locked away. It's all pushed down in that box from before that won't see the light of day for quite some time. Maybe he should send Chris some flowers for being such a shining example of healthy emotional coping strategies, or perhaps just a referral to a therapist would be more appropriate. 

He knows its been at least an hour since the fire was started, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away. His mother has held onto his left hand the entire time, which he knows absently would not be easy since she has a strong aversion to fire and heat at the best of times, but she is unyielding in her support.

When his brain finally remembers that the rest of the world exists and he can tear his eyes away from the fire, he finds himself looking at his grandmother.

She's statuesque as she stands just off to his left, immovable and achingly beautiful. The fire is casting a violent red glow across her platinum hair, and she has the same vacant look on her face that Stiles imagines was previously on his face. It takes him a moment to notice that silent tears are cascading down her face and he's reminded of his dad's words about looking after her. He slips his hand from his mothers and approaches his grandmother. 

She jolts slightly when he places his hand on her arm, and it's telling. Stiles starts to feel guilty because, for all of his grief, he at least has people he can lean on. Titania just lost her eldest son, something that simply does not happen amongst the Fae, and yet she has no one to support her. Not her bonded, not her youngest son or even Stiles himself because he's been so wrapped up in his own feelings. His grandmother is expected to remain unmoved by anything and continue to rule her court. 

He takes her hand and leads her out of the garden. Thankfully no one stops them and Stiles is aware it's about the only time ever that that's going to happen around here.

They don't speak as he leads them to the kitchen, it's empty now that the cooks have left following the banquet. 

With about all the grace of a baby elephant, Stiles unceremoniously flops to the floor, Titania following in a much more refined fashion. With a wave of his hands, they both are suddenly holding ice cream. Titania blinks slowly before tipping her head back and laughing in a way that shakes her entire body. 

Stiles beams at her as she slowly regains her composure, and he is rewarded with a smile of pure delight that he knows from experience doesn't grace his gran-grans face very often.

"We used to do this with all the time with your Uncle Row, didn't we, my little starlight."

There is a brief silence as they both think back on all the times Titania would hear from the servants that Rowan and Stiles were missing. She had a 99% success rating of finding them both sitting here on the kitchen floor eating everything they could get their grubby hands on. 

"Do you remember that time he got trapped in the wine cellar with the Coblynau union?"

"You would think for a group of miners they would have figured out a way to get out of their sooner" She grumbles around a mouthful of ice cream.

The remainder of the night is spent on the kitchen floor, and at some point, Titania summons several blankets so that they can huddle together. They reminisced about life in the palace when Stiles was a child, about all the ridiculous things Rowan used to do and about all the latest court gossip that Stiles will no doubt get dragged into starting tomorrow.

It's not much, and it certainly doesn't fill the void they both feel without Rowan. They both know tomorrow will be filled with politics, headaches and plans for Stiles's coronation. They will both hate it, and Stiles knows he for sure will have at least three mental breakdowns. But sat there giggling in the dark like they did when he was a child, it makes them both feel less alone.

* * *

It's a week until his birthday and Stiles is about ready to feed himself to the dire-wolves.

Maybe he's spent too long in the human realm, or perhaps it's his seemingly genetic rebellious streak coming out in full force, but he's never felt so abysmally bored as he has the past few months settling into court life. He honestly doesn't know how his grandparents have ruled for so long. He's pretty sure if he has to listen to one more complaint over land disputes or perceived social slights he's going to throw himself off the nearest balcony, which wouldn't be hard considering he is currently stood on his bedroom's balcony.

His mother has been his saving grace these past few months, her very presence working as a Seelie repellent, but he suddenly understands his uncles disdain for courtiers. As a child running around the palace, he didn't have much of an opinion of them, except of course the odd one or two that used to sneak him candy or the ones that made nasty comments. Now they are all just pompous and downright devious assholes trying to one-up each other and make things better for their specific lineage of Fae and none of the others.

He can't wait for his birthday and coronation to be over so he can start to travel as Rowan did.

His uncle's shadow has hung over every move he's made in the past few months. It's hard feeling like you have to fill someone's shoes while simultaneously mourning them. He has however grown accustomed and seemingly immune to the sly and snide comments over his apparent 'mixed' heritage. 

No one has made an outright statement about it, especially not in front of his grandmother who would quite cheerfully execute someone herself if they did. But it's there, quiet and subtle just like it was when he was a child. Stiles doesn't expect it to change in a hurry once he's officially the crown prince either. 

He's found himself wondering several times now if Rowan was travelling for the sake of it, for the thrill of adventure and glory, or if he was finding an excuse to run away from the restrictions of court life. Stiles certainly wants to run away at the soonest opportunity, even though he knows as soon as he leaves, he will feel incredibly guilty leaving his gran-gran alone.

Which she will be since apparently his parents plane on staying in a cosy little pocket dimension somewhere that his Uncle squirrelled away for them shortly before he died. 

He can understand it, he supposes, that they will want to catch up on time apart and to finally be able to live in peace again before they even think about living in one of the courts. But it doesn't help him deal with what feels like an increasingly significant burden on his shoulders.

He doesn't want to be the crown prince. He doesn't want to deal with all this pretentious court bullshit.

He wants to go back to Beacon Hills.

He wants to go back to Peter.

It had hit Stiles about a week into being back in the Summerlands that he loves Peter. He realised it when all he could think about was how much he missed those stupid smiles he would get when they were alone, their heated discussions about everything from the proper watching order of the Star Wars movies to the best types of penguins, and how wonderfully safe he felt waking up in Peter's arms.

He regrets immensely the way he ended things and even more the fact that he can't take it back without either spilling the beans about everything or lying through his teeth, neither of which are viable options. 

Even as a young Faeling, before he had even met his parents and they were only stories his Uncle would weave together for him, he wanted his relationship with his bonded to be like the one his parents have. Fierce and passionate and utterly devotional in every way. One that defied all customs and propriety, one that was so perfectly in sync that he would be willing to leave behind everyone and everything he's ever known to be with them. 

He knew that unless something drastic happened to change his mind, that kind of relationship was no longer on the cards. Stiles doesn't even know who it is yet, but he already resents them. He resents everything he has been forced to give up to do things 'properly'. 

Stiles would even consider restarting his relationship with Peter after his bonding if that wasn't:

a) the biggest douchebag move he could possibly pull  
b) Not even possible because Peter Hale plays second fiddle to no one.

"Diamond for your thoughts?"

Stiles turns at the voice to find his grandmother and his mother are standing in his doorway.

If there was one thing that Stiles has been pleasantly surprised at, it is the friendship that seems to have bloomed between Titania and Claudia. 

"Please don't talk to me about diamonds, that's all I've heard from the Northern salamanders and the Coblynau all day," Stiles says, making a face of pure exasperation. This earns him a chuckle from both women, who apparently no longer care about him or his suffering if that's their reaction.

"Come with us, my Starlight. We have some things to discuss in preparation for the upcoming festivities."

Stiles grumbles and whines like he's regressed back to being a toddler but follows diligently as he's lead down the corridor to the Queen's private suite. 

The monotony of the day comes to a very abrupt screeching holt as he walks through the door.

Because lounging in his grandmother's favourite chair looking like he owns the place is his grandfather, Kind Oberon of the Unseelie Court.

_What the everloving fuck?_

It takes a second for him to realise the words have tumbled out of his mouth without permission, but honestly, the sentiment still stands. 

It feels like his brain is short-circuiting, and he's pretty sure he can hear an Internet dial-up tone coming from somewhere, considering his grandfather is Seelie Court public enemy numero uno and should definitely not be here.

"What is the name of Shakespeare's baggy pants is he doing here?" Stiles grits out, eyes closed and right hand sharply pinching on the bridge of his nose

"Mischief…" His mother begins, but it's absolutely and categorically the wrong thing to say. Claudia realises this instantly as Stiles rounds on her, eyes burning furiously and magic cracking in the air.

"Don't. Call me that. Again" The atmosphere is ice cold, and no one dares to move while Stiles drags his magic forcibly back under control.

"Mischief was the name Uncle Rowan called me. And I told you, I go by Stiles now anyway." He grinds out, bouncing slightly on the spot and actively refusing to look anywhere except the very interesting spec of dirt on his left shoe. 

Names are incredibly powerful to the Fae. A true name is rarely shared with anyone except your parents and your bonded. In fact, Stiles doesn't even know what his parent's true names are. Claudia and Noah are simply the names they've gone by for the longest time. Before that was Sarah and John and before that was Everlyn and Andrew, and then his memory gets a little fuzzy as to what came before. Similarly, nicknames and chosen names are almost as important since they carry tangible magic that with a bit of complicated magic could be used for any number of things. 

It is the first lesson in magic that he remembers Titania teaching him, how to protect his chosen name and stop it from being used to manipulate him. 

With his breathing and heart rate almost back within a reasonable range, Stiles finally looks up. His mother is stood next to Oberon, a hand resting softly on her father's shoulder. However, it's his grandmother that has him narrowing his eyes in what is definitely starting to feel like impending doom.

She's delicately sat on the edge of her bed next to Oberon, their knees are touching, and her hands are resting on the chair arm only a hair's breadth away from Oberon's own hands.

Yep, definitely impending doom.

"Now my wild little Faeling stop scowling and come give your Gramps a hug. It's been far too long, and these old bones have missed you." Oberon raises from the chair, arms outstretched. Stiles raises an eyebrow because that line would definitely have worked better if he didn't look like he was still in his 30's and like he's just walked off a runway in either Paris or Milan.

He hugs his grandfather tightly, and some of the tension Stiles has been carrying drains away slightly. When they pull away, both of them remain standing for a long moment. Oberon looks briefly uncertain, not a common expression for his Gramps.

"Alright, start talking. Because my brain is doing the think thoughts and they are not painting any of you in a particularly good light right now." 

"Promise to wait till I've finished talking Wildling before you jump down my throat?" 

Stiles leers unkindly at his grandfather but nods his head in agreement.

"You are a smart one Stiles, so I'll cut straight to the point because you've no doubt worked out what I'm about to say." Oberon exhales, and the tension in the room could be cut in half with a blunt knife. "Your Grandmother and I have decided to re-establish a unified court and resume ruling together. As an heir to both courts, you are our obvious choice for Crown prince of the unified court."

The internet dial tone is back, only this time, it is screaming very loudly in his ears. 

Stiles is also vaguely aware he is really starting to hate all these big bombshells and then long-suffering pauses, who exactly do his family think they are, The Kardashians?

"So let me make sure I've got this right in my head," Stiles starts, and he is definitely channelling Peter's particular brand of fury. His tone is about a pleasant as battery acid and overflowing with barely contained white-hot rage. "The two most powerful being in all of Fae, probably across half of the known realms, decide to separate their courts, an action might I add that has cost thousands of lives in just as many years. They are so determined that they hate each other that they force their own children to be hunted like animals for well over a thousand years, but then suddenly just change their minds and what, everyone is expected to be okay with this?"

Sparks are flying from Stiles skins like tiny fireworks. He's definitely never been accused of having particularly good control over his magic when he's upset or emotional. Now is no exception

"You mean to tell me that I had to watch my mother almost die, had to beg and plead for her life while you two argued and split hairs, that I had to spend 200 years running around the earth in constant anxiety, that I almost burned to death on more than one occasion and that even now my dad is banished from the Summerlands and none of that mattered enough for you two to put aside your differences before and work something out?" He lets out a ragged breath, but his anger is still rising like a tidal wave inside him as it quite literally bursts out of his skin in molten sparks.

"You really think you can just announce that all of my families suffering was effectively for nothing, that so many died for nothing, that dad couldn't say goodbye to his brother for nothing, and you expect me to smile and be happy that you two are back together? What enchanted mushrooms have you all been eating because holy fuck are you all out of touch with reality right now."

The only thought really going through Stiles's brain right now is how desperately he wishes either Peter or his dad was here to help anchor him. The desire from before to return home has returned in full force, and he's strongly tempted to walk out of the room right now and head back. Stiles is so goddamn tired of his life being dictated to him by his family and his position and a title he sure as hell never asked for. He's tired of all the secrecy and hiding and lying, because from where he's standing it's all done nothing but cause aggravation and unnecessary pain. 

"Darling please, I know how hard living the way we have has been on you. I want nothing more than to erase the pain you've had to go through, but I can't. None of us can. But just because the past has been painful and difficult, that doesn't mean we should pass up the opportunity for things to be better in the future. Reunifying the courts won't bring back the ones we've lost, and Father and your gran-gran have to live with that burden for the remainder of their days. Doing this means that we don't have to lose anyone else in the future" 

Stiles knows his mother would set the world on fire if she thought it would be best for him, and he knows she wouldn't endorse something so potentially disastrous as this if she hadn't already extensively weighed all her options first. He hates that he can also see the logic in what she's saying. 

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair in an attempt to expel some of his energy. He's still angry, hell he's still livid, but he can't deny it would ultimately be selfish to rally against this just because of past grievances. He knows if his Uncle was here, Rowan would put the future of his people before anything else. 

With a flick of his hand, he summons a chair from across the room and deflates into it.

His grandparents and Claudia all look incredibly hopeful, and he can resignedly feel his anger begin to reduce to a simmer rather than a boil. 

"Start from the top and explain everything, I want to know exactly what kind of mess I would be agreeing to." 

Stiles shuffles in the chair in an attempt to get comfy, he can already tell it's going to be a long night and that he's going to hate every single second of it.

* * *

It's official, no way to deny it, completely 100% no getting away from it. 

His entire family _needs fucking therapy._

The last week has been a total nightmare, because of course how else was it going to go? Organising a coming of age celebration, a coronation and the entire restructuring of two countries and their societies all at the same time = Total. Fucking. Nightmare. 

There has been an endless stream of complaints about the re-merge, not surprising considering at the official announcement no less than seven courtiers collapsed from shock. That had been Stiles highlight of the week so far. 

His grandparents are acting like goddamn teenagers fawning over each other like they've never been apart. It leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. 

Plus he now needs to deal with the slight mental trauma that is the thought that after being married for over 1000 years, his parents are about to become step-siblings. The less he thinks about that one, the better.

His mother has been terrorising the entire palace staff, making sure both courts are equally represented in the coronation celebrations. Apparently, there is a massive difference between pine green and basil green and having napkins, the wrong colour is an insult to Danu, Circe and every other higher power she can think of. 

Stiles is convinced he's also losing his mind because he's dreamt of Peter for the last seven consecutive nights. 

It's maddening how hard he tried to keep a distance between them for so long, how strongly he denied his feelings only to now be reduced to a pining puppy. Worse, he's tempted to start writing poetry and listening to sad songs in the rain and bring back the whole 2003 aesthetic, but he doubts he can pull off the eyeliner. 

Yep, definitely, all needing therapy. 

"Your grace, are you even listening to me?" 

Stiles is brought back from whatever planet his brain has drifted off to, somewhere out near Pluto, by the gruff voice. 

He blinks owlishly and realises he's completely zoned out while he was absently petting one of the dire wolf puppies when he was supposed to be listening to the head guard. 

"Sorry Torin, can't say I was."

There's a long-suffering sigh that doesn't surprise Stiles in the slightest. Torin has been his gran-grans head guardsman for longer than Stiles has been alive and is well versed in Stiles's personal brand of annoying. 

Torin is taller and more muscular than the average bipedal Fae, which Stiles suspects is due to some Coblynau blood floating about in his veins. They are, after all, known for being goddamn huge. He looks like he wouldn't be out of place on the front of GQ magazine or Men's Health like some kind of beefcake Legolas and while he's almost definitely the scariest thing this side of Mordor, Stiles also knows he rescues stray Cait Sidhe kittens from trees and bakes cookies for the court orphanage on his days off. 

"Please your grace. You must pay attention to what I'm saying. We head out to the great Nemeta in three hours, and it's vitally important you know all the safety information."

Stiles plops the puppy back into the pile of newborns and stands up, brushing straw off his linen pants. He's still in the ridiculous black getup from the funeral (although thankfully a clean version) and will be in it until tomorrow when he's crowned, and the courts unify. Reverence for the previous prince or something his mother had told him when she forced him into these ridiculous clothes day after day. He was tempted over several occasions to crack out the crop top and capris again. 

They are currently stood in one of the many barns on the palace grounds since Stiles had snuck away from the open court towards the end of proceedings after hearing his favourite wolf Ariya had successfully birthed her litter. Torin had clearly spotted his escape and cornered him when he arrived at the barn. 

All he wanted to do was pet some puppies, since when has that been a crime? Although maybe it was the part where he was trying to avoid his impending majority ceremony that had everyone so wound up?

"Tori Tori Tori, you my man seem to be forgetting this isn't a regular ceremony. No one is going to lay a finger on me. Gran-gran and Gramps would literally tag-team a horrific ass-kicking of an unprecedented and frankly legendary level if someone so much as sneezes in my direction." 

Torin looks ready to grumble and refute Stiles's logic. The man is nothing if not conscientious, and if someone so much as stubs a toe during this ceremony, Torin will no doubt fling himself from the tallest tower he can find.

"He's quite right Sir Torin, as much as you are used to my sons usual level of chaos and mayhem I don't think you need to worry about this event" Both men turn to look to see Claudia in the barn doorway with a slightly mad glint in her eye, the same one that's been driving Stiles to the brink of insanity all week. 

"Thank you though for locating our wayward Prince. I've been looking for him as he needs to begin preparations for the ceremony. Stiles, come with me please." 

Her tone leaves absolutely no room for negotiation or refusal, and Stiles knows he has to accept his fate. Torin even sends him a slightly pitiful look as he walks past and towards his mother. 

They walk up towards the palace in silence, and he can feel in his bones that his mother is gearing up for something big. When they reach his rooms, he heads in first and lets out a shaky sigh when he hears his door lock behind Claudia. 

"So this sabotage thing you've been doing, is this because of your lover wolf back home?"

Stiles whirls around to face her, shock evident on his face. He purposefully hasn't told anyone in the Summerlands about Peter, or really anything relating to Beacon Hills. 

Stiles's brain doesn't seem capable of stringing a coherent sentence together, so he stands awkwardly in front of Claudia, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish while she simply leans against his door, expression entirely neutral. She lets him sweat for a moment before continuing.

"You really think your father didn't know you were seeing someone? Or that he wouldn't keep me up to date with the goings-on in my son's life? Especially when they are regarding a murderous werewolf, reformed or otherwise. Your uncle made sure we had ways and means of keeping in touch every once in a while."

Claudia's face softens, and she walks forward drawing Stiles into another one of her enveloping hugs. 

"I know its hard, my sweet boy, especially if you've been together as long as your father thinks you have. But you are a prince of what is about to be one of the strongest realms ever to exist. Our people are about to enter a new golden age, my little lionheart, and you are incredibly pivotal to that. Have faith that the Nemeta will match you to someone as equally wonderful and brilliant as you are." 

Stiles is crying into her shoulder by the time she finishes talking. He knows she will interpret it as him agreeing with her even if in reality hes crying for a multitude of reasons. She always was a believer that a rousing speech could solve anything. Stiles would freely admit if asked that he had been less than enthusiastic over preparations and had gone out of his way to rebel against it all quietly. He doesn't want any of this, would gladly give up the entire kingdom if it meant he could go back to Peter. But if he's honest with himself, He knows he can't fight this any longer. 

“ Now let’s get you changed into your ceremonial clothes. Everyone will meet us at the Nemeta.”

Stiles lets her manoeuvre him as he changes into what is basically an identical outfit, although it’s clearly of a higher quality than what he has been wearing on a day to day basis. The material is more substantial and the detailing even more intricate. All it does is make Stiles feel like he’s drowning.

It doesn’t take long before they are ready to head out, the Nemeta is located in the very centre of the Inbetween, and for some bizarre and inane reason, Stiles is being forced to walk there. It seems like an absolutely absurd tradition, some poetic nonsense about the long journey to adulthood that he just knows is a load of crap. 

His mother clears her throat as he places his hand on the door and Stiles is forced to turn round. In her hands is his crown, the one his grandmother had made out of rose gold and silver when he was born. It’s the last time he will wear it but looking at it now he’s tempted to turn it into a frisbee. Even more so since it reminds him that tomorrow at his coronation, he will be given his uncles crown.

He takes it wordlessly and places it upon his head before allowing Claudia to fix it properly in place. It feels like it matches the crushing weight currently sat on his shoulder.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. I wish your father and your uncle could be here to see this.” She hiccups through unshed tears and Stiles tries desperately to push down his feelings of despair. He knows how long she has waited for this moment, especially considering on several occasions throughout the years she didn’t even think she would live to see it.

He tries not to get angry about his dad’s lack of presence because that's already been the source of several volatile arguments. When his grandparents had told him about their hair-brained plan for uniting the courts, one of the first things he had argued for was the immediate end of his parent’s banishment so that Noah could return and witness the celebrations. To his eternal irritation, Oberon had explained how banishment was done using old and arcane magic, the same type of magic that created the Inbetween and separated the two courts. Meaning in short that without a full court hearing to excuse his parent’s crimes, the banishment would have to stand until it had run its natural course. And since the deadline is this very ceremony, it means the sooner Stiles gets this over with, the sooner his dad can return and maybe some sense of normality can return.

Human bureaucracy would never have anything on the Fae. 

So Stiles quells his anger at his dad not being here and tries to focus on being as happy and cheerful as he can be for his family. The emotions are incredibly forced, boarding on fake. He feels like a fraud, a feeling that to his incredible distaste, he’s becoming increasingly familiar with.

The walk to the Nemeta is an intense and energetic affair once they leave the castle, Fae of all ages throughout the Seelie court are waving and wishing him well. It even manages to genuinely boost Stiles mood. Dancing and singing can be heard throughout the realm, and Stiles imagines his grandfather’s court is in similar spirits. 

Stiles is even starting to feel quite giddy as they cross the threshold into The Inbetween. That wild energy that permeates every inch of every living thing here is seeping into his bones, and it’s a struggle to keep his laughter from bubbling out. He thinks maybe he is starting to understand why they made him walk.

The sun is slowly setting, and a pale dusk begins to settle, although before his eyes have much of a chance to adjust to the increasing darkness, several orbs of soft light make themselves known. They hover at eye level and direct Stiles and Claudia towards the Nemeta. Phosphoromany, the manipulation of light, is, after all, a large part of his grandmothers magic.

By the time they reach the Nemeta, Stiles’s eyes are aglow as his magic buzzes just below his skin. Not quite at the level of being uncontrollable but enough to make him feel light-headed. His magic has always been an intrinsic part of him, woven tightly into his very soul and hard to control. It is in everything he is, it is his history and his future. 

Surrounding the Nemeta are all 5 of his mother's siblings, aunts and uncles beaming at him in absolute joy. He knows that honestly none of them expected him to survive this long. Frankly, he wasn’t 100% convinced himself that he would make it to this day. He also secretly suspects they are all also quite thrilled at the prospect of no longer being in line to the throne. The Fae loved and coveted power it’s true, but ruling not quite so much. All of his mother's siblings had been incredibly vocal about that when he was younger and living in the Unseelie court.

Stiles has never visited the Nemeta before, only heard talk of what it's like to stand so close to their people's origin point. It’s an electric experience like nothing he’s ever felt before, and it suddenly seems to make sense why the Fae wait so long before allowing access to it. It feels almost he’s drunk and high on top of a massive endorphin rush. 

The tree itself is so far beyond what he was expecting that he’s lost for words. It’s truly enormous, far exceeding the size of Beacon Hills Nemeton. He realises that while the Nemeton is one the many connection points between the Summerlands and Earth, it is a mere sapling by comparison for the Nemeta is easily ten times the size in height and width. Its bark is a strange swirling pattern that Stiles has never seen before in Nature and a dark rich brown colour that is just shy of being black. The leaves are a glowing combination of reds, greens, yellows and oranges that feel like he sees all four seasons at once.

The fading dusk and the soft glow from Titania's light orbs are casting an ambient light to everything around them. Titania and Oberon approach Stiles and Claudia in front of the Nemeta, arms linked, and both positively beaming. Stiles thinks to himself that they’ve never looked more beautiful. For all his initial reservations and conflicting emotions, he’s starting to see a light in both of their eyes that was undoubtedly never there before.

Both Stiles and Claudia bow in unison to the King and Queen as is customary at these ceremonies and the buzz of chatter from his surrounding family and members of both courts that have been trusted to attend dies down almost instantly as Titania cleared her throat to speak. 

“Children of the Great Mother, it is my greatest of privileges to present to you today my grandson, the soon to be Crown Prince of the Summerlands. His name of choice from this day onward is Prince Stiles. As his King and his Queen we wish upon him the brightest of future and all the blessings of the Great Mother,” Titania pauses and looks at Oberon who nods ever so slightly “Prince Stiles, you may now approach the Nemeta and receive your soulbond.”

In an instant, Stiles’s legs have seemingly turned to Jell-o. The intense, heady buzz of magic has disappeared, leaving him to feel almost hungover. Quite frankly, he’s terrified. 

His mother gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and he doesn’t even need to look at her to know she’s crying nothing short of rivers with how proud she is. He steps forward on shaky legs without a word, eyes transfixed on the giant behemoth of a tree in front of him. It’s maybe 100 yards away, but it feels like 100 miles. He reaches out to touch the tree with an uncertain, shaky hand and everything whites out.

* * *

Stiles blinks as the world comes back in to focus, and it takes him a moment to realise that something is very different. As he looks around the area surrounding the Nemeta, he realises everyone that has been in attendance is frozen like statues.

“What fresh hell is this?” Stiles says to himself, trying to stop panic from setting in.

“I was wondering when you were going to arrive.” Comes a voice like the tinkling of bells.

Stiles turns back around and jumps slightly. Gone is the Nemeta and in its place is a deceptively young-looking Fae child, looking the picture of innocence. Barefoot in a simple white sun-dress, her skin is a rich melanin the same colour of the Nemeta’s bark. If he looks closer, he can see the same spiral patterns etched across her skin. At first glance, he assumes her hair is the same colour before he realises the cloud of corkscrew coils surrounding her is, in fact, a dark forest green. It’s her eyes, however, that are her most striking feature. Instead of the gold or mercury he’s used to seeing on a Fae, they shine a fluorescent purple. 

“I’m assuming you aren’t a Dryad?” Stiles asks because snark still remains his number one defence even when he knows it really really shouldn’t be.

The young girl laughs at him softly but doesn’t reply, and Stiles has never felt more uncomfortable in his entire life. Her eyes are boring into him like she can see straight through him. He’s fought feral werewolves, run from dragons, been drowned by Sirens and watched his mother almost die and yet this little sprite of a girl has him scared to his very core.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Prince Stiles. I spent many years orchestrating your birth.” She smiles sweetly at him and reveals two rows of razor-sharp shark-like teeth, and suddenly it hits Stiles precisely who she is. "Ahh, I see by your face you have worked it out. I am the spirit of the Nemeta, but you may call me Nimue.”

Stiles wants to make a comment about the irony of ‘The Lady of The Lake’ actually being ‘The Little Girl in the Tree’, but he resists because he’s still freaking the fuck out and he would quite like to stay alive a little bit longer, thank you very much. 

Nimue sits down on the floor and pats the earth to signal for Stiles to join her. He does so without hesitation and waits for her to speak again.

“I was left here to watch over your kind by The Great Mother Danu when she left to breathe life into new worlds. I am as much a part of her as she is of me, and yet I am me, and she is she.” Stiles nods but privately thinks that makes about as much sense as modern-day political debates. He believes he sort of gets it but is also very much confused. Nimue continues regardless. "When Queen Titania and King Oberon split this realm, it grieved The Great Mother's heart and ever since I have been working to find a way to reunite them and the kingdoms.” 

Nimue turns to look at him, and Stiles realises he doesn’t think he’s seen her blink her. She’s defiantly up there at the top of his list of creepy little girls. The Shining got nothing on this. 

“Your birth is the result of countless years of planning Prince Stiles. But even for all my planning, I had no way to guarantee anything. I simply had to hope you would be able to carry out my vision. You are the reason this realm will begin to heal Prince Stiles, and your existence has already brought great joy to The Great Mother. Because of this, I will bestow upon you a gift.”

Nimue waves her hands, and there's a strange shimmer to the air in front of them. Stiles is frozen where he’s sat before the shimmer slowly begins to solidify. He’s holding his breath as he slowly begins to stand. Nimue hums quietly to herself and isn’t even paying attention anymore, she’s staring off into the distance somewhere.

He’s shaking and looking on in disbelief as the shape in front of him stops changing and stood in front of him is his very dead uncle.

“What…how..” Stiles is rendered speechless and wants nothing more than to launch himself at Rowan, who’s now grinning at him like a Cheshire cat.

“The souls of Fae that have passed come here to wait until the return of the Great Mother” Nimue remarks absently as a way of an explanation, and it’s all the permission Stiles needs to fling himself at his uncle. He half expects to fall through him, but Rowan catches him like he has done a thousand times before and Stiles sobs hysterically into his arms the moment he does. 

It takes a full 5 minutes for Stiles to calm down, or at least it feels like 5 minutes. He isn’t sure how time is working right now.

“I’m so glad to see you again Mischief, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye or that I won’t be able to see your coronation,” Rowan says as he smiles at Stiles. It’s the first time really that Stiles has realised that without his glamour on he is easily two inches taller than his uncle. It’s a sobering thought.

There are a million things he wants to say, things he never got a chance to before Rowan died, questions about life and his powers and how the hell he’s supposed to be Crown Prince, but there's only one thing he truly wants to know. Since he doesn’t know how much time he has left with his uncle, he knows he has to ask quickly.

“No one will tell me how you died or literally anything about what happened. I asked, but mom keeps avoiding the topic, and Gran-Gran just started crying and then made a window shatter” Stiles says a quickly as he can in an attempt to get the words out before he can stop himself. Rowan stares at him in silence, the only sound is Nimue's continued humming. Rowan sighs after a moment and combs his hand through his hair before he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“There was a rumour that some of the court-less bounty hunters living in The Inbetween had started making deals with some humans on earth. They were going to capture you and your father and then ransom you back to the highest bidder. Fae or human it didn’t matter.” There is a sharp bite to Rowan's tone, and Stiles feels like he’s going to be sick. If this is going where he thinks it is going… “I took a small troupe to apprehend the hunters, but somehow they knew we were coming. It got very bloody very quickly but was also over just as quick. We thought we had them all either dead or unconscious, but one of the little bastards clearly wanted one last stand because he hit me in the head with an iron dagger .”

Stiles is definitely about to be sick, no wonder no one told him what happened. He’s the reason Rowan died, he’s the reason Gran-Gran lost a son, he’s the reason…

A sharp hit to the head pulls him out of his spiral, he looks to see Rowan looking at him less than impressed.

“Mischief, I swear to Danu that if you start blaming yourself, I’m going to kill you myself.” Rowan's remarks deadpan before he shifts to look at Stiles seriously. “ I died carrying out my duty as Crown Prince. And I would have gone to stop them no matter who they had been threatening. The fact it was you and my baby brother? That just meant I died with a smile on my face knowing two of the people I loved most in the world were safe. I don’t want you going through life thinking I died because of you Mischief, I want you to go through life living for me. Take all the chances I can’t, do all the things and make all the mistakes and memories I can’t anymore. Live a good long life with your bonded. Can you do that for me, Mischief?” 

Stiles nods through unshed tears, how exactly could he refuse a dead mans wish anyway?

“It’s time for him to go,” Nimue says airily, still staring off into the distant. 

Rowan beams at Stiles again and pulls him into one last hug.

“I love you my little Mischief, always have and always will. Now raise hell for me. I don’t want to see you here for at least another 3000 years.” Rowan whispers in his ear. Stiles just clings on to his uncle as tightly as he can until the once-solid form disappears and his uncle is gone. 

It’s then that Nimue stands up from the ground and she’s looking at Stiles once again with that laser point focus. Nimue lifts her dainty little hand, and it's a small miracle Stiles doesn’t flinch away as she slowly rests it on his face. 

"Your bond is unprecedented, much like your parents. That you already share such a profound bond with your soulbonded, I must assume it is because of your prior knowledge of the fact."

Wait, _what?_

"I'm sorry, What do you mean by prior knowledge? You've kinda lost me a little there. " Stiles asks politely like what he just said isn’t the understatement of the century.

Its Nimue’s turn to look confused, which is honestly a bizarre experience in and of itself.

"Your bonded is a wolf is he not? As the Great mother's favoured amongst mortals, they were given the ability to know their mate upon first physical contact.” She says slowly like she’s suddenly questioning his mental faculties. 

“I’m way too fucking sober for this,” Stiles mutters as he looks up towards the sky. He’s 99.9% convinced he’s pieced together what she means and holy hell is he not ready to mentally process this just yet.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Stiles begins slowly. There's an undeniable thread of hysteria in his voice “ that my soulbonded that I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with is, in fact, the guy I lied to and broke up with about three months ago and that the entire time I’ve known him, which is almost a decade, he’s known that we are soul mates?!” Stiles will deny till the day he dies the octave his voice reaches at the end of his sentence. 

“I suppose so, yes.” Stiles has to stifle a scream at her response, a direct contrast to Nimue’s soft ‘how's the weather’ tone. 

He steps away from her for a moment before he says something to the seemingly all-powerful soul-tree-in-a-kids-body that he will no doubt deeply regret. His parents should be so proud of him right now.

He’s about a hairs breath away from a full-blown panic attack, because how in the name of that is good and holy is he supposed to explain to Peter the truth and ask his forgiveness while simultaneously not separating Peter’s head from his body for knowing they are mates for nine years and then letting him walk away? He isn't entirely sure if he should find it honourable Peter didn’t want to pressure him or furious that he didn’t fight for him. 

Again, _way_ too sober to deal with all this.

“If you are quite finished with your strange mental anguish, it is time for you to return.” Stiles turns back towards Nimue, and before he can blink, she’s floating in the air just in front of his face.

“Go with the Great Mothers blessing Prince Stiles, we will meet again in the future.” She reaches up and places a kiss on his forehead, and before he can even say a word the world seems to shift and jerk, like a vinyl record being scratched, and with a heavy blink time appears to reboot, and he’s back where he was, hand pressed against a very solid tree. 

His palm touching the Nemeta suddenly feels like it’s burning, and he jerks it away quickly. The burn soon dials down to a stinging sensation as he turns his hand over to look at it and he can't help the loud gasp he lets out as he looks down at his hand. He can hear his mother and grandparents approaching him, asking him if he’s okay and what is on his hand. 

Stiles turns to face his family, he doesn’t really trust himself to speak right now and lifts up his hand. True to Nimue’s words etched into his hand like a faint healed scar is a triskele and the name _Peter Ian Hale_. 

* * *

It’s several long hours after his soulbond has been revealed and Stiles is curled up in a chair in his grandmother's chambers, watching his grandparents argue with one another and with his mother. They’ve been at it for what feels like an eternity, and all they’ve done is go round in circles about what it means, what they should do and so on and so forth and blah blah blah.

Stiles hasn’t actually said anything for at least the last hour, having given up speaking out of frustration that none of them were listening to him at all. He’s exhausted, physically, mentally, and most of all, emotionally. He’s had their last conversation playing in his head on loop ever since Peter’s name appeared on his hand. He’s mindlessly tracing the triskele next to Peter’s name repeatedly when his family finally seem to reach a decision about how to ‘deal’ with the situation.

“Starlight what is your take on this?” Titania asks him finally, and he shoots them all a baleful look because it's frustrating that he has finally had his majority ceremony, and yet, they all still insist on treating him like a child.

“My hot take is that you’re all being ridiculous.” Stiles bites out 

“Mind your tone Wildling,” Oberon warns, and it’s the match that Stiles needed to spark his anger into a full-blown explosion. He is so beyond done with all of this, and he has a sudden clarity as to why his parents fought so god damn hard for so long to stay together and why they decided to give protocol and what people thought the biggest middle finger they could manage. There was no way in any and all the realms he was letting them dictate his life to him and whether or not he could be with the man he loves.

“Jesus, did neither of you learn anything from the last 2000 and god knows how many years? You might have all the power in this realm and think you’re Danu’s gift to the Fae but look how well it turned out when you tried to keep mom and dad apart. You broke your families apart and almost lost everything and everyone. And what royally pisses me off is how fine and dandy it is to follow along with these holy and ordained soulbonds until the moment it doesn’t fit into your agenda.” 

Stiles is seething, but for once he’s able to maintain control over his magic. If anything he feels like he has them locked down more so than he ever has before. Like they’ve finally truly synced up with him in a way he’s never experienced before, and it’s fueling his emotional fire. 

“So here’s my take on your options. Someone is going to visit Beacon Hills and find my dad and Peter so that they can come back here and I will go through with tomorrows coronation, or if I take my parents and Peter and disappear from here forever. Frankly, right now, I’d be happy with either, so it’s up to you two.”

Oberon moves towards him but is stopped by Titania jerking her arm out in front of him and holding him in place. Her face is resigned as she shakes her head when Oberon turns to look at her, a mixture of confused and annoyed.

“Starlight is right Obe. We tried to defy The Great Mother once before, and it certainly didn’t end up as planned. I’ve already lost one son, I don’t think I can lose the rest of my family.” As she spoke the air and fight visibly leaves Oberon, and he sighs in resignation. Oberon turns to Stiles, who has similarly lost most of his fight after hearing the fragility and emotion in his dear gran-grans voice. 

“I swear to Danu though if this werewolf hurts you or anyone in this family I will turn him into a nice new pelt and hang him from the branches of the Nemeta myself.” They all chuckle at Oberon's not entirely empty threats, and Claudia pats her father's arm in approval at his change of heart. 

They talk for a little while later before it’s agreed Claudia shall leave first thing in the morning to retrieve Noah and Peter. Stiles confesses everything he said to Peter the last time he saw him and explains precisely what Claudia should expect when dealing with her son's bonded. It’s not going to be easy for her to get him to agree to go with her, it’s still a strong possibility Peter will refuse to have anything more to do with Stiles and Stiles will have to go and grovel once the coronation and political melodrama is all over and done with. 

Stiles is well aware that he has a fair bit of grovelling to do before he and Peter would be able to move on, regardless of whether that happens in Beacon Hills or here in the Summerlands, it is going to be brutal. 

The next morning, Claudia awakes Stiles just as the sun begins to rise to kiss him goodbye and with little fanfare, she rather excitedly leaves for Beacon Hills.

Stiles, however, feels like he’s going to be sick and can’t even bring himself to eat anything for breakfast. He is equal parts excited and terrified, and all he can think is how much he wishes his uncle was here. He spends most of the day alternating between staring into space and pacing back and forth inside the same receiving room he arrived in. Once the early afternoon hits, panic and dread start to creep in. The coronation will take place at dusk, and with every passing moment, he’s beginning to wonder if not only will Peter not be in attendance but that both of his parents won't make it in time. 

“If you keep walking back and forth, you will wear a hole into the floor.”

Stiles turns to see his grandfather is leaning casually against the doorframe. 

Clearly, that's a family trait. 

Rather than one of his usual navy outfits, he’s decked out in shades of green. A high collared shirt so light it is almost white, paired with olive green linen pants, finished off with a floor-length overcoat in the same olive green and covered in intricate silver and gold detailing. It’s bizarre seeing his grandfather wearing anything other than his usual court affiliated colours. It brings Stiles a small bit of comfort to know it’s because, in just over an hour, there won’t be the need for such loyalty markers anymore. Something Stiles has craved for as long as he can remember.

Oberon pushes himself off the frame and wanders into the room. Ever since Stiles got over his initial disdain for his grandfather, Stiles had hoped that one day he would be able to have the same kind of presence as Oberon. It’s a similar kind of swagger to the one Peter puts on for shits and giggles to be intimidating, but for Oberon, there’s no off switch. He walks through the world knowing full well it will bend to his will, and if it doesn’t, he’ll make it. It's not even overconfidence or ego but something else, like a true awareness of who he is and his abilities that has been achieved over the many millennia he’s been alive. Both of his grandparents are dangerous and often impulsive, while Titania is like the hidden currents in a seemingly peaceful river, more than happy to drag you down when you least expect it and carry you away to wherever she wants, Oberon is like a lightning storm. He makes no effort to hide his darkness or his lethality, with the ability to strike with deadly consequences. 

Stiles is offered one of Oberon’s rare smiles, a genuine smile that isn’t a half-smirk like he usually does, and he hands Stiles a glass of what appears to be Firewhiskey, a potent drink made by a rather unique group of Fae called the Asrai that value their privacy to the point they live inside oceanic volcanoes. 

“Did I ever tell you why the fourth floor of my castle was off-limits?” Oberon says out of the blue, and Stiles just looks at him in confusion before giving a slight shake of his head and taking a drink from the glass in his hand. The burn of the whiskey makes his throat feel like it is literally on fire and he can’t stop from wincing, much to his grandfather's amusement.

“The reason the fourth floor is off-limits,” Oberon begins “Is because of the day I found out you had been captured and brought here. Gods I was….I was furious.” His eyes glow in remembrance and Stiles's interest is peaked. Oberon is definitely not a man to talk about his emotions at great length or in much detail, so Stiles is curious to hear what his Gramps has to say.

“The idea of my little girl giving birth on Earth was hideous enough as it was, but I knew if your grandmother ever got her hands on any of you, then I would never see you.” Oberon chuckles with no real warmth before downing the remains of his drink. 

“Later, your grandmother took great delight in sending me a missive to inform me she had you in her care. I was beyond angry, I was livid. I couldn’t stand the fact that because of her, I would never know my grandson, and he would no doubt be raised without his mother and made to hate his own people. For the first time in thousands of years, I lost control of my magic. There was an explosion, and then that delightful bit of Sluage Sidhe in me spun up a frenzy and the entire floor got blasted by a rather wild fireball.”

Stiles's mouth is agape, because _hot damn_.

“While circumstances certainly haven't been ideal to this point, your existence, brought us all back together in a way I never saw coming. I wouldn't change that outcome for the world. Your family loves you Wildling, we always have even if we haven't always shown it. ” Oberon has a soft smile on his face and Stiles is filled with a rush of love. Both of his grandparents have a stubborn streak a mile wide, and it is comforting to know they put thousands of years of animosity aside because of him. No matter his initial reservations about their reunion, Stiles is quite confident that if anyone tries to get between his grandparents again, regardless of who they are, he will gut them and put their head on a spike.

“If it weren’t for you my little Wildling none of this would be happening. That day you argued with us to heal your mother was the moment I realised you would someday be a great ruler and I knew then I wanted you to have the entire Summerlands, not just part of it. With your bonded and your family at your side, you will be a force to be reckoned with my Wildling, and I couldn’t be prouder.” 

Stiles pulls him into a hug, and when they part Oberon’s trademark smirk is back on his face, so it’s clear his 5 minutes of emotions are over. Stiles finds that he doesn’t mind too much.

Oberon leaves the room soon after and Stiles is left alone with his thoughts once again. 

He appreciated his grandfather's words, Oberon is after all very much a warrior king who doesnt really believe in big declarations of love. It's nice to actually hear for himself how much his family care for him, especially since living in the human realm hasn’t exactly done wonders for his self-confidence. 

Stiles heads out to his own room and begins preparing for the coronation. He’s practically vibrating with both nerves and excitement. He’s rationalized the fact that if his parents don’t make it in time, then they must have a damn good reason and after his talk with his grandfather, Stiles feels much more confident in the support he has from the rest of his family. It’s a little weird thinking that it’s no longer going to be just him and his parents and that he will have both of his grandparents and all of his mothers siblings to help him with whatever crazy gets thrown in his direction in the future.

He dresses in an outfit very similar to the one his grandfather had on, and it’s only when he looks at himself in the mirror that he realises the silver and gold detailing on the clothes is a direct reference to his eyes. He knows his mother is responsible for that one, simply because Stiles remembers how many times he would cry over them and she would insist on their beauty.

It’s not long before Torin knocks on his door to collect him and the head guard is absolutely beaming at him. Stiles thinks privately to himself that it defiantly looks like Torin is about to cry.

The halls of Titania’s castle are silent as they walk to the throne room. Logically Stiles knows it’s because everyone has headed to the coronation ahead of time. It’s still strange to walk through what is usually a busy castle, filled with the hustle and bustle, and there not be another living soul.

“Are you ready, my prince?” Torin says, and Stiles grins with confidence he doesn’t entirely believe or feel. He’s a firm believer of fake it till you make it after all.

Stiles feels slightly like he’s detached somewhat from himself as the coronation begins. Like he’s watching through a distorted mirror as Torin opens the doors for him. Stiles begins his slow walk up to his grandparents, who are both seated on ornate thrones that look like they’ve been crafted from golden tree branches weaved together. Stiles has never seen these thrones before, so he assumes they must be their old thrones from when they initially ruled together, and Stiles is defiantly going to make fun of his grandma later for hoarding a pair of chairs for a couple of thousand years. He always knew she was a secret hoarder.

There are more people than he can possibly count packed in like sardines, so the wide berth that is given to the carpet of wildflowers right in the centre of the room meant to guide Stiles's procession is laughably obvious. The throne room itself is probably one of the single largest rooms in the entire castle, circular with several levels of stalls and balconies above the ground floor. Those are also unsurprisingly packed to the rafters. The thrones are situated on a raised Mosaic stone platform, and the whole thing reminds Stiles slightly of a Roman amphitheatre.

Stiles still feels like a spectator inside his own head as he reaches the edge of the platform and drops to one knee in front of his grandparents. Oberon looks like he’s torn between a genuine smile and his usual smirk and Stiles is going to have to make a mental note to teach his Gramps regular person facial expressions. Titania, however, is absolutely beaming like her smile could power the sun. They both rise from their seats and hand in hand, approach Stiles.

“Residents of the Summerlands, I, King Oberon, present to you and formally nominate my grandson Prince Stiles as the crown prince and heir of the Unseelie Court.” Oberon bends and places a kiss on Stiles’s forehead. A silver dagger Stiles hadn’t previously noticed is in Oberon’s hands as he slices open his right palm. A furious line of crimson appears, and Stiles offers up his left hand for the same thing to be done to him. Oberon joins their hands together, and the reaction is instant. There's a pulse of something powerful, names and titles have power, after all, that seems to resonate throughout every cell of his body, and it’s undoubtedly the jolt Stiles needed to focus on whats going on. Oberon steps back to his previous place, both of their wounds already healed with only a thin line of dried blood a sign that something had even happened. 

Titania repeats the same liturgy as Oberon, and as she places her own kiss upon his brow, another dagger appears, and she again repeats her husband's actions. Stiles feels like he’s housing lighting in his body as she steps away from him. He watches as Titania turns to her left and Torin approaches the platform carrying a plush green pillow bearing his uncles former crown. Seeing it now as Titania reaches for it knocks the air out of his lungs and he’s feeling more than a little lightheaded. His legs are starting to go numb being pressed against the cold stone and he’s quite literally willing himself not to pass out.

“With this, I name you Crown Prince Stiles The Mischievous, heir to the reunified Summerlands,” Titania calls out as she places the silver crown onto his head. It’s a similar design to his grandparent's thrones that sits more around his head than on top with a brilliant ruby centrepiece.

He’s not even upset at the title his grandparents have bestowed him with. Despite his previous aversion to having anything more to do with the name his uncle used to call him, it feels…fitting. A subtle and sweet nod to his predecessor. The crowd begins to roar and cheer in approval, and many in the upper levels start to throw down flower petals. It soon looks like it’s raining flowers and Stiles lets out a shaky breath before grinning. It’s all done, he managed to get through it and now he can focus on moving forward. A subtle move of his grandmother's hand let him know he can rise. As he stands, he turns around to face his people and waves at them. It’s only now he realises how intermingled the watching crowd is. Clothes of both courts, along with colours Stiles has never seen in either of the courts before, are blended together, laughing and dancing and celebrating with one another. It’s a little unexpected but defiantly appreciated. Integrating the courts back together isn’t going to be easy, and there is still a lot of unresolved issues like what to do with the courtless outlaws and The Inbetween, but those are issues for another today. For today’s he’s simply going to enjoy the moment. 

It’s a testament to the staff of Titania’s place that in almost no time at all several large banquet tables have appeared from God only knows where ladened and groaning with foods of all kinds. The throne room doors are reopened to allowed those gathered some breathing room, along with doors on each of the many balconies which lead out to large banquet halls, because Fae magic always has and will always say a giant fuck you to the laws of physics, which contain their own abundant supplies of food and drink. His mother has done a truly spectacular job with seemingly no details forgotten. He can’t lie that he isn’t pretty disappointed she couldn’t be present. Still, with every single person at the celebration apparently wanting to congratulate him personally, he has little time to mull it over.

It’s refreshing to watch Titania and Oberon circuit the rooms together, the perfect hosts entertaining any and all that they come across. To look at them now, it’s hard to believe they had been apart for so long.

After an hour or so, space is made in one of the upper rooms for a small band which thanks to some rather magical acoustics can be heard throughout the palace. There seems to be no end to the food or drink that’s flowing, and everyone seems to be in good spirits. At some point, Oberon pulls Titania into a passionate yet somewhat theatrical dance, and Stiles can't stop a giggle from escaping. 

Stiles is talking to a rather effervescent Lamia, whose name he had immediately forgotten thanks to one too many glasses of wine, that was apparently his dad’s old sword-fighting instructor. She was delighting Stiles with tales of how abysmally awful he was it when a shattering scream is heard from the throne room. He’s on one of the middle balconies but jumps down on to the ground floor in seconds pushing through the crowd to see whats going on. Stiles can hear Torin and the rest of the guards pushing the crowds back from the entrance doors, and when he finally breaks free from the sea of people, he’s stunned by what he sees. 

To his abundant horror, Lydia and Alison are holding up his mother, and seemingly struggling to keep themselves upright. They all look like they’ve been dropped off by a tornado, Allison’s leather jacket is missing a sleeve, and her arm is hanging awkwardly, clearly dislocated and she appears to still have half an arrow shaft embedded in her leg. Lydia has quite a nasty gash on her left temple that still seems to be bleeding slightly, and her clothes look faintly singed. 

His mother, however, is defiantly the worst for wear. She’s not wearing the clothes she left in, in fact, he’s pretty sure she’s in Alison's running kit of all things. Both of her arms are bandaged up but red, and even more worryingly black, is rapidly seeping through both bandages. The black pants look almost like they've been put through a paper shredder and he can see her femur sticking out of her left thigh. Claudia’s hair is matted together from what looks like a painfully deep head injury at the base of her skull, one of her eyes is swollen shut, and there's a trail of black blood flowing from her mouth and dripping down onto the stone floor.

Both of the women do a brief double-take at seeing him, which honestly is the least surprising thing about this entire picture before both faces morph into looks of total relief and exhaustion.

“What have you done to my daughter?!” Oberon’s snarl parts the crowd behind Stiles like the red sea and Stiles, acting on autopilot, turns and slams into his grandfather to stop him from lunging for them. 

“Calm down, Gramps! They’re my friends, I trust them.” Stiles yells out at Oberon, and the King's anger abates fractionally. Enough to allow Titania, who is by their sides a moment later, to take charge of restraining her husband and enabling Stiles to turn back to his friends. He calls for Torin and the guard swiftly yet gently retrieve Claudia and without any prompting whisks her off to the healer's chambers.

“Stiles…that is you, right, Stiles?” Lydia asks shakily, and Stiles nods. Tears well up in her eyes and he pulls both of them into a gentle hug, careful so as not to exacerbate any injuries. His mind is racing about 1000 miles a second wondering what in the name of fuck has gone on in Beacon Hills in the 16 hours his mother has been there.

“What the hell has happened? Is anyone else hurt?” Stiles fires out as he pulls away and he doesn’t miss the quick look his two friends share before Allison speaks up. 

“Stiles…It’s your dad and Peter. They’ve been kidnapped.”


End file.
